


les morts vivants

by MeMeMe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Arguing, Chronic Illness, Co-ops, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, Fewer zombies than you’d think, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Logistics, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, References to Depression, Socialist Utopia, Supernatural Elements, Trans Character, Unplanned Pregnancy, council meetings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:48:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 60,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23421940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeMeMe/pseuds/MeMeMe
Summary: No one expected the revolution to start with a news report of a Florida man biting his landlord on the hand and refusing to let go. But over a year later, there are some bright sides to living through the zombie apocalypse. Like the former Madeleine estate, which has been converted to La Republique d'Amis, a peaceful socialist co-op.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 83
Kudos: 132





	1. arrivée

**Author's Note:**

> returning to the LM fandom, at my age, to write a zombie AU? Listen, 2020 is already so goddamn weird, this may as well happen.
> 
> title is literally just "the walking dead" in french, I'm a derivative hack

The length of the fence was reinforced with a homemade barricade of furniture and debris, but the gate had been left clear. Marius leaned his shoulder against the buzzer and prayed.

So far as he knew, this was the last secure settlement. Certainly he hadn’t seen any others since he’d left his grandfather’s home. That was weeks ago, surely a hundred kilometers, and he wasn’t likely to make it that long again if he remained on his own. If there were people here still, and they were willing to answer his buzz, they were his last hope.

Before him, the gate jerked and began to slide open.

Marius closed his eyes as tears of relief threatened to spill.

He stepped through the gate, and it swung closed behind him. Armed sentries-- one man, one woman-- approached him from either side. Both looked clean and healthy.

“State your name and purpose,” the woman said.

“My name is Marius Pontmercy,” he said. “I come seeking sanctuary.”

“How many are you?” the man asked.

“Just one,” Marius said. “It’s only me left.”

The guards exchanged a look heavy with understanding. The woman holstered her gun. “We’ll take you inside to discuss it further, but you’ll have to take off your clothes.”

His face must have shown some part of his horror, because the man smiled at him pityingly. “It’s a necessary precaution, I’m afraid. We can’t let anyone into the house who might be concealing a bite.”

Marius nodded. “I understand. I, um--”

The woman, who had looked on him coolly so far, softened a bit. “Combeferre can check you, if you’d prefer. He’s a medical man.”

“Used to be,” the man muttered.

She unhooked a walkie talkie from her belt. “I’ll radio to tell Enjolras we’re coming in. I’ll be just the other side of the wardrobe, if you need me,” she told her companion, and loped off out of sight.

“She won’t peek unless I yell for help,” Combeferre said. “Éponine’s honorable. Now let’s get it over with.”

The search was quick and perfunctory. Combeferre completed his examination with clinical professionalism and very little talking, but there was something degrading about being the only naked person in a group, especially out of doors and with strangers. He was acutely aware of how long it had been since he’d bathed. It was also perhaps a little cold, at this time of year, to be unclothed.

“No wounds,” Combeferre concluded, and stepped back.

Marius felt the ease of some anxiety, as though he had been in doubt of the outcome of the inspection. “Thank you.”

“Thank yourself,” Combeferre said, putting a hand on his shoulder in a small act of comfort. “When you’re ready, we can go in.”

He redressed and followed Combeferre along the barricade until they reunited with the woman Éponine. 

“He clean?” she asked, looking over Marius’s head to make eye contact with her partner, who nodded. 

They walked up the hill toward the house. It was set well back from the road, and as they drew closer Marius began to discern that it wasn’t just one house, but an old-fashioned estate, with a sprawling main house surrounded by several smaller buildings-- guests houses, garages, barns, sheds, even a pool house. More stunningly, there were unarmed people milling around in the yard. Children, even. Marius hadn’t known there were any children left. At a glance, they all seemed cleaner and healthier than anyone Marius had seen in months.

Combeferre and Éponine led him around the back of the main house and up a set of external wooden stairs to an apartment over the garage. Combeferre rapped twice with his knuckles on the door, and it opened.

The man who opened the door looked less like the clean, well-dressed people working and chatting on the grounds, and more like the first refugees he’d seen, back when things first started getting bad. His shirt was rumpled, his face was dirty, and his greasy hair hung loose in an uncombed dark mass.

“So this is the latest orphan,” he said, a smirk creeping over his face.

“Grantaire, go,” a sharp voice came from behind him.

“Of course, my lord,” the man in the doorway said with a bow. “But I don’t want you thinking you’ve won. My point from before stands.”

“As does mine,” said the man behind the desk. He was tall and imposingly good-looking, with clear, fair skin and thick golden hair tied back from his face. “Now get out of my office.”

“All right, all right, I’ll let you give your recruitment speech.” Grantaire dodged Marius to duck out the door, pausing only to smack a loud kiss to Éponine’s cheek.

The blond man fixed Marius with intense, serious blue eyes. “Sit. Please.”

Marius stumbled into the chair he indicated, setting his backpack at his feet. 

Across the desk, the man settled gracefully into his own chair. “Éponine tells me you’ve been traveling alone.” He poured water from a pitcher into a glass and slid it toward Marius.

He took a drink, trying not to gulp as the cool, clear feeling of fresh water saturated his dust-coated throat. “My grandfather and I had a house sort of like this one,” Marius said. “A big house, bigger than we’d needed just for us. We took in some of the locals, but there weren’t enough strong people to maintain the perimeter. There was a breach, then an outbreak… my aunt got sick, and everything fell apart after that, pretty quickly.” Marius swallowed heavily and took another mouthful of water. “Please don’t send me back out there. I can’t make it on my own all winter, and I’m strong. I can work. I won’t be a burden to you.”

The man held up a hand. “Let me reassure you. I have no intention of sending you out to make your way alone. It’s barbaric. Man is lost without brotherhood.” He smiled faintly, which only served to underscore his severe demeanor. “I only need to make a few things clear before I extend you full citizenship. You’ll need to agree to our terms. As for your willingness to work, you’ll need it. We all do our fair share here. You’ll be assigned tasks on a rotation until we find a fit for your skills. No shirking of duties or violence against your fellow settlers will be tolerated. We take care of our own but we pool resources; no hoarding. We’re meticulous about health and safety here, and we obey a strict lights-out policy. As you know, the dead who walk may have diminished sensory capacities, but they  _ can  _ see. Anyone who puts the settlement at risk will be given a pack and asked to leave.” 

He lifted the pitcher again and refilled Marius’s glass. “Are you amenable to joining our agreement?”

“Yes,” Marius gasped. “Yes, thank you, Monsieur, uh…”

“Oh, how impolite of me. I apologize, I’m dreadful with small talk. My name is Enjolras.” He stood and extended his clean but calloused hand to grip Marius’s grimy one, with no detectable hesitation. “Welcome to La Republique d’Amis, Monsieur Pontmercy.”

Combeferre stayed behind in the office to chat with Enjolras while Éponine led Marius to an empty room laid with mats, sleeping bags, and mattresses. 

“There’s a space open in this room,” she said. “The bedroll in the corner is yours if you want it. No one’s in now but you’ll meet them all later. You can set your things here. Keep your pack for now, but someone will go through it with you later to get everything routed to the proper supply. I’m sure you’d like to get cleaned up first.” She opened a closet set in the wall. “Towels are here, and the shower is through there. You can take clothes from this shelf, they’re unclaimed from the communal closet. They might be a bit big, but they’re clean. Your old ones can go in the hamper by the door. The laundry crew will wash them, and get them repaired if they can be or recycled if they can’t.” Éponine smiled gently. “Anything else you need?”

Marius felt dirtier than ever, now that cleanliness was so close. In the presence of fresh clothes, he was painfully conscious of how ratty and mud-stained his own had become. “No. Thanks, um, Éponine.”

“No problem.” She laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, I know it’s a lot to take in at first. You’re doing great. You’ll feel better once you’ve rested a little. We’ll send somebody by a bit later on to show you around the place.”

He had no idea how long her was in the shower. After so long away from running water, even a cold shower felt like bliss, and it overcame his senses somewhat. Finally, the water ran clear, and the thought that someone might be waiting on him made him self-conscious enough to cut the tap, though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

As he emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, a low voice growled “Well, bonjour, Monsieur Marius.”

Grantaire had evidently also taken the time between their last meeting to groom himself. His hair was tamer and flatter, his face washed and shaven, and he’d changed into a hooded sweatshirt that looked soft and clean. “I’m here for your tour.”

Marius blushed. “Um, sure. Sorry. Let me, uh… Put some pants on?”

Grantaire laughed. “Take your time, young Marius. Make yourself boringly decent. I’ll wait in the hall.” He turned and looked over his shoulder, dark hair curling around his face like a cloud. “Oh, and so you know, Enjolras has a rigid ten-minute shower policy. Conservation, you know.” He waved a hand and stepped into the hall.

When Marius had donned a pair of slightly-too-big pants (cinched tight with a belt) and a much-too-big shirt, he opened the door and found Grantaire placidly leaning against the wall opposite, drawing in a sketchbook. He flipped it closed before Marius got even a glimpse of what he was drawing, and stuck the book into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and the pencil behind his ear. “Ready?”

He didn’t wait for Marius to answer, just took off down the hall. He didn’t even look back to check whether Marius was catching up.

“This is the North Wing. It has a bunch of bedrooms. Yours is known as the Yellow Room. There’s also a Blue Room and a Green Room. No one’s here during the day really, because everyone has work assignments to do.” Grantaire talked as easily as he breathed, words coming right after one another in a rapid-fire barrage that was both disorienting and, somehow, orienting. “It takes a lot of work to keep a place like this running and everyone’s expected to pitch in. Enjolras is pretty serious about idlers, so don’t let him see you being lazy unless you’ve got a really good excuse.”

They came to a fork where the hall split into two paths. Grantaire stopped walking to wave a hand toward the right branch. “That goes upstairs, which has more bedrooms, but you can’t ever go up there because that’s where the Madeleines live and Monsieur Madeleine is adamant his daughter’s privacy be respected. Seriously, he’ll make zombie meat of you if he catches you up here.”

“Who are the Madeleines?” The edge of the staircase was barely visible, a gilded banister going nowhere. A mystery. A forbidden zone.

“Monsieur Madeleine was the mayor here, back when there were mayors. He and his daughter get a suite to themselves because this was their house, back when there was private property. The rest of us were adopted from the city last year, students from the university mostly, but also some homeless and whoever else got on board before the big wave hit.” Grantaire pushed his curls off his forehead and started down the left fork. 

“Next is the main part of the house. Up those stairs is the library. In the mornings, the kids have school in there. In the afternoons, some of the former university students hang in there for quiet time, as if I don’t know where to find them. Down here is the big room. We call it the Heart. Sometimes there’s larger gatherings in here but mostly people use it for whatever they’re working on during the day, and informal socializing in the evenings.”

The room was massive, and while a few pieces of expensive-looking furniture remained, most of it was empty floor space covered in thick rugs and cushions liberated from sofas which had long ago gone to line the barricade at the perimeter. A small group of older women sat in a semi-circle by a window mending clothing.

“The best light is in here, so this is where all the sewing happens on days the weather’s not nice enough for them to sit on the porch. You don’t strike me as a sewing man yourself, but if you can sweet-talk Jehan into altering those clothes so you don’t look like a kid playing dress-up, this is where he’ll do that.”

Grantaire ushered him out the back door into a thin corridor. “The kitchen is back this way, but I can’t show you up close because I’m not allowed in there anymore. Someone or other is usually there to help you, though, if you get hungry and it’s not a mealtime. Musichetta’s soft-hearted about hungry mouths, and the whole kitchen team is pretty good at feeding the poor huddled masses. Breakfast is on from six to eight, come as you like. Lunch is usually sandwiches or something set out for when you can get a break from your work assignment, and family dinner is at sundown, no exceptions. They set out places in the dining room and everyone eats together and tells stories and sometimes someone plays some music or gives a poetry reading afterward. If there’s any announcements or stuff, Enjolras will give those at dinner too, but there hasn’t been news from the outside for a long time.”

“So Enjolras is the leader here?”

Grantaire frowned. “Not officially. Big decisions are decided democratically at meetings, which are twice a week in the Heart, but Enjolras and a couple of others take care of the rest. He’s not, like, power-hungry or anything. He’s just Enjolras. He’s got a lot of ideas about how we’re supposed to live. You’ll like him once you get to know him.”

“How many people live here?”

“A hundred, give or take.”

Marius turned sharply. “That many? In the house?” 

“Some of the families stay in the outbuildings for a little more privacy, but most everybody lives up here in the main house.”

He chewed his lip. “How do you feed that many?”

“Creatively,” Grantaire laughed. “We do a lot of work on the farm to grow and produce what we can ourselves, and when the stock gets low on essentials, we draw lots to see who has to go on a supply run. There’s an ATV that runs on biodiesel, and teams of three go out to forage.”

Grantaire showed him around the land next, pointing out the gardens for edible and medicinal plants and stopping to wave at a thin boy with long brown hair who was morosely tugging a wagon carrying pails of milk.

“Got you milking the goats again, huh?” Grantaire chuckled when the boy got close enough to hear.

“There is nothing poetic about a goat,” the young man said glumly. He was older than Marius had thought, in his early twenties; his height made him look younger.

“Jehan, I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet. Marius Pontmercy, Jehan Prouvaire is one of your roommates in the Yellow Room.”

“A pleasure,” Jehan said, dropping the wagon’s handle to bow with a flourish. It looked less sarcastic when he did it than when Grantaire had bowed back in Enjolras’s office. “As it always is, to meet a new survivor and friend. Consider me at your service. If there’s anything, anything at all, I can do to help you settle in, please let me know.”

“Anything, that is, but take over goat-milking duty, right?” Grantaire added.

As Jehan’s downcast face, Grantaire grabbed the wagon handle. “Come on, I’ll help you carry it back.”

“So generous!” Jehan exclaimed. Marius couldn’t tell if it was sincere or not.

Grantaire didn’t seem to mind either way. “Yes, well, we all have to do our part, don’t we?” There was an odd tone to his voice.

“Easy for you to say. Everyone’s thrilled with you as long as--” Jehan clamped his mouth shut.

Grantaire’s dark eyes flicked to Marius and then back to Jehan. Suddenly he looked dark and dangerous.

“So,” Marius said, desperate to break the tension. “Who else lives in the room with us?”

Jehan seized his arm and chattered excitedly the whole way back to the house, spilling maybe a dozen names Marius would forget and need to be told again. Grantaire trailed behind them, silently dragging Jehan’s wagon of goat’s milk.

When they arrives back at the house, Grantaire returned to Jehan his wagon. “This is where we part ways. You’ve got to get that to the kitchen, and I’m going to return Marius to your room, where you can play with him later.”

Jehan stood on tiptoe to kiss Grantaire’s cheek. “You’re a prince among men.”

Grantaire shuffled his feet, eyes fixed on them. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Then Jehan turned to Marius. “I’m sure you’re tired, and I can’t imagine what you’ve been through on the road alone, and I know this is all very new, but I can tell already that we’ll be great friends.” He flung his thin arms around Marius’s neck.

It had been so long since he had been hugged that he wasn’t sure how to respond at first. By the time he’d recovered his senses, Jehan had flounced off toward the kitchen with his wagon.

“He’s a good kid.” Grantaire said.

He led Marius back to the room where they’d started. Marius was glad he had a guide. The halls all looked the same to him.

“You had a pack when you came in, right?” Grantaire asked. “Has anyone gone through it with you?”

“No.”

“Well, I could help you with your things,” Grantaire said. “If you’d like. There are some things we’d need to route to the proper department, and some stuff we don’t keep in the house at all, for security. It’s a little confusing at first, but I’d be happy to explain it all.”

“Would you?” Marius asked hopefully.

“Certainly. I’m always here to help a brother in need.” Grantaire assumed a cross-legged position on the floor and pulled Marius’s beaten gray backpack from his hands, then unzipped it. “If you’ve got food in here, it’ll go to the pantry, and bullets to the arsenal. This,” he said, lifting Marius’s machete, “you can keep, but don’t let Enjolras catch one of the kids with it, or you’ll lose private weapon privileges and it’ll get locked up with the guns.”

He reached back into the bag and pulled out some painkillers and bandages. “These will go to the infirmary-- that’s in the East Wing, do you remember?-- and you can keep the books if you want, but I’m sure they’d be glad if you were willing to store them in the library. Some of the more ambitious readers get bored with what’s on offer, and they love to share better than anybody. Your clothes you can keep on your shelf, once you’ve claimed one, but you can also donate anything to the communal closet or the scrap bin if it seems appropriate. Let’s see, what’s left in here… ah!” Grantaire’s eyes lit up like a sailor’s at the long-awaited sign of land. “This you’ll have to give over for safekeeping. Enjolras is very serious about keeping stuff like that where the kids can’t get at it.”

Marius watched as Grantaire pulled a nearly-full bottle of what had been very expensive scotch from the backpack by its neck. “It was my grandfather’s. He always wanted to save it for a special occasion, and, well…”

“This is a beauty,” Grantaire crowed, cradling the bottle gently. “What is it, an eighty?”

Marius nodded. 

“Forty years and the zombie apocalypse this bottle’s survived. I’d hate to see it go down a drain. You want me to hold onto it for you? Keep it safe from meddling forces?”

Marius nodded again. “I don’t think Grandfather would have liked it to go down a drain either. Put it wherever it has to go.”

Grantaire tucked the bottle under his sweatshirt. “No problem. I got you.”

A gentle knock on the door startled Marius, and he looked up to see the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his life.

“You must be Marius,” the angel said with a pretty smile. “I’m Cosette.”

Marius forgot how to breathe.

“I think that’s my cue,” Grantaire said, jumping up. “Gotta dash, lovely to see you as always, Cosy, and very nice meeting you, Marius. Great to have you on the team.” He dashed out of the room.

Cosette wrinkled her nose. “What was he doing in here?”

“He gave me a tour of the grounds,” Marius said.

She frowned. “But I was sent to show you around.”

This was how Marius learned two things about life at La Republique d’Amis: one, that no one in their right mind would have assigned Grantaire a tour guide job, and two, exactly why access to alcohol was so strictly controlled on the estate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I think I would shelve my magnum opus, a 75k+ WIP, to dust off something I abandoned so long ago I was still writing longhand? No. But I think we all have a lot of, uh, Stuff to work out about contagion and humanity and confinement right now, so... let's have a zombie party, why not?
> 
> I have SOME ideas about where this is going, but this is PLAY, so I'd love to hear any ideas you'd like to donate about what our revolutionary friends are doing in the socialist aftermath of zombie destruction. I'm not promising to incorporate them but I AM promising to cherish and honor them.
> 
> PS it's not all Marius POV, I'm going to shift over chapters, I just... thought this was neat.


	2. méditation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you ever think about what you'd be doing if none of this had happened?" Joly asked.
> 
> "I try not to," Combeferre replied.
> 
> "I do," Joly said. “I have this whole fantasy life where I’m studying for exams and inventing new and exciting combinations of energy drinks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for some alcoholism talk

Musichetta and Joly got up at the same time every day, rolling off either side of their makeshift shared pallet and leaving Bossuet curled in the middle. At five in the morning, Bossuet was too deeply asleep to be awoken, though he sometimes stirred or rolled over as they crept away.

Really, Joly could have afforded to sleep another hour or two, but he liked their silent companionship when everyone else was sleeping. Chetta needed to get to the kitchen to start breakfast, so after brushing their teeth side by side and having a fresh-breathed early-morning makeout in the bathroom, she went downstairs. She never had much time because she refused to get up any earlier, although she could’ve used another half hour to get ready. By quarter after, Joly was usually alone in being both awake and outside the kitchen, and this morning was no exception.

Joly read once about some aspirational group of people-- he could no longer remember if they were “successful” or “happy”-- that carved out time in the morning for exercise and mindfulness. Ever since, he’d taken some time first thing to imitate them. He didn’t know if he was any happier or more successful than before (the data was difficult to collect), but if nothing else it helped to have a routine.

He liked to do his stretching in the library, so that’s where he headed after leaving the bedroom. The Heart had seemed at first a more natural fit for light calisthenics, but through trial and error he’d found he had a lower risk of interruption in the library. Lessons didn’t begin until eight-thirty, so the children and their teachers wouldn’t head up for at least two hours. Jehan was the only other person who regularly claimed solitude in the library, and he was more of an evening person than a morning one. Joly would be alone until he went down to get Bossuet for breakfast.

Musichetta used to be a certified yoga instructor, so Joly knew some modified poses he’d adapted into his fitness regimen. Once he’d done the moving of his body he’d promised himself, he sat in a corner for his meditation. Trying to clear his mind was tricky, and he was better at it some days than others. The exercise helped, but it wasn’t a miracle cure for racing thoughts.

Today, the thought that kept intruding was that he should take a trip to the barn. _That’s not what we agreed_ , he told himself. He’d wanted to go yesterday, but yesterday was only the second day, and that was much too soon. Four days, that’s how long he’d decided to wait. Today was day three. Still too early to act on his concern. _Tomorrow_ , he told himself. _Wait until tomorrow._

Once he’d done all the meditating he could stand, he went back down to the Yellow Room. Some of their roommates were starting their days, but they paid Joly no mind as he made his way to Bossuet.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Joly sing-songed, shaking his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“No,” Bossuet said. His eyes were closed though he was clearly awake. “Go on without me.”

“I would never leave you behind.” Joly took Bossuet’s hand and kissed his fingertips one at a time. This was pushing the boundary for the room’s agreement on public displays of affection, but as long as things didn’t get overtly sexual, most neighbors didn’t put up much of a fuss.

Bossuet groaned. “You’re killing me.”

“Come on, up you get.” Joly nudged him.

Bossuet pushed himself to standing and extended a hand to help Joly up.

Joly pressed a hand to his heart and batted his eyes. “So chivalrous.” He took Bossuet’s hand and levered himself upright.

“I love you but you have to stop being so cheerful at this hour,” Bossuet told him. “It really bums me out.”

“Shan’t!” Joly chirped, and started for the door. Once Bossuet was out of bed, the battle was over and he’d stay up. “Hurry up and get dressed, I think Chetta’s making pancakes.”

Chetta’s pancakes used to be uneven blobs; cooking for a hundred had significantly improved her process. Joly knew there were more hands in the kitchen than just hers, but he liked to imagine she’d made this perfectly uniform pancake just for him to enjoy. Looking at it on his plate filled his heart with love.

Bossuet let Joly lead the way, even though his natural pace was faster and he could have comfortably pushed ahead. Joly knew this, too, was an act of love. Since being in front put him in control of where they sat, he put himself next to Jehan.

“What’re you on today?” he asked.

“Cleaning,” Jehan said. He stirred his yogurt with his spoon, but didn’t lift it to his mouth.

“Not bad,” Joly encouraged him. 

Jehan shrugged.

Joly had a theory that most people could be classified as either cats or dogs. Jehan was a cat. He didn’t always get along with other animals and sometimes got stressed out and stopped eating, but he was fastidious and beautiful. Joly was a cat, too. He understood.

Bossuet, who was a dog, had different strengths. “I’m in the greenhouse, if you want to trade.”

Jehan perked up. “Really?”

“Sure. I don’t mind.” The thing was, he really didn’t. Bossuet didn’t sweat little stuff like what task he’d spend all day working on.

“I love plants,” Jehan said excitedly. “I wish we had more that flower but I like the ones we have, too. We feed them, they feed us. It’s beautiful if you think about it.” He licked the yogurt off his spoon and reached for an apple. “Maybe I’ll save the seeds and plant them.”

The return on investment of an apple seed wasn’t as good as a tomato plant, but Joly liked to see Jehan happy, so he didn’t say anything. He made a note to talk to the work rotation council about getting Jehan a permanent assignment in horticulture.

No one had to be at their work assignments until after breakfast closed at eight, but Joly liked to be early to the infirmary to make sure everything was in tip-top order before people started coming by for help and everything spiralled out of control. Once he’d finished his pancake and all the fruit Bossuet had piled on top of it when he wasn’t looking, he stood up.

“You can leave your plate,” Bossuet said. “I’ll take it, since I’m doing dishes today.”

Joly leaned forward and kissed him. “Have fun today.”

“Always,” Bossuet grinned. They’d used to say _be safe_ every morning when they parted ways, but eventually it had started making them feel less secure rather than more, so they’d decided to stop. It made Joly sad when he thought about it, but it had cut his early-morning panic attacks in half, so he knew it had been the right decision.

Working in the infirmary was not always a good time. There were a lot of situations Joly didn’t feel prepared for. His formal education had ended during his externat, and by the time he would’ve qualified for his classifying exams, there had been no such thing anymore. In the before-world, he hadn’t been able to prescribe medication or treat patients without having his work checked by a qualified doctor. When he had bad days, he worried about that. Having people’s lives in his hands was a big responsibility. He wasn’t sure he was ready.

But he liked his job. He liked keeping the dispensary organized and making sure people had access to what they needed. He liked working with Combeferre, even though he wasn’t an actual doctor either. He liked that he got to do what he’d been working toward for years, instead of having to become something else, like the former news anchor who worked in the laundry department. He liked helping people.

The infirmary was in the East Wing, which meant it got excellent light in the mornings. That helped Joly set the mood for his day. By the time he was ready to open, he was also ready to be bright and cheery.

Someone was waiting outside the door when he opened it. It was their newest resident, still looking shadowed under the eyes.

“Oh, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” Joly said. “It’s Marius, yes?”

“Yeah,” the guy said, looking nervous. “They sent me to, um, shadow with you? While they figure out how to use me.”

“Right,” Joly said. It sounded familiar. “Do you have any medical experience?”

“Not really,” he confessed. “I was my grandfather’s caregiver, but it wasn’t particularly advanced.”

Joly sucked on his lip. “Hmm. Well, you can help me with the inventory, anyway. On a good day we shouldn’t be too busy.” He stepped to the side and motioned for Marius to follow.

He did, though he seemed reluctant. New guy was a cat, maybe. Uncomfortable in unfamiliar environments.

“The most important thing is that what people tell us in here is secret. They have to feel safe and trust us, or we can’t help.” Joly looked at Marius’s solemn expression. “Everything else I can show you, if you end up working here. But you have to take confidentiality seriously or you can’t stay.”

Marius nodded. “I understand.”

“Great!” Joly smiled. “In that case, some this way. Let me show you the dispensary.”

Joly’s pharmacy was the thing he was proudest of. “Got all kinds of stuff in here. We raided a drugstore and got their whole stock. We keep the closet locked when we’re not here; we trust people, generally, to know what they need, but things like antibiotics and opiates are too precious, so either Combeferre or I always sign off on their use. Have you been in the kitchen yet?”

Marius shook his head. “Next week, I think. I was with the cleaning crew yesterday.”

“Well, they have a similar policy we do about stock. We try to use the oldest medication first, to limit waste.” They kept a locked cabinet in the kitchen, too, but he’d let Musichetta explain about that. “Sometimes a pill gets loose, so if you find one somewhere, bring it here and we’ll try to identify it.”

“You know what every pill looks like?” Marius’s eyes were wide and credulous. Joly started to think he was more of a dog.

Joly grabbed his favorite thing in the world. “No, we have a book. This is the Physicians’ Desk Reference. It’s my Holy Grail.” He gave all his other books to the library to share, but if anything happened to this one… well, it was too terrible to contemplate.

He was about to go into a lengthy demonstration when he heard a knock. “Oh, someone’s here,” he said, unable to keep himself from sounding disappointed.

His disappointment was short-lived, though, because it was Musichetta at the door.

“Chetta!” He greeted her. “What a lovely surprise. Breakfast finish up okay?”

“One of the kids broke a plate, but that’s Bossuet’s problem now,” she said with a smile. “Can I get another month, please?”

“Is it that time already?” Joly turned to Marius. “We let people keep their own stash of the things they need regularly, so they don’t have to come down every day.” He walked back to the medication closet and grabbed a sheet of twenty-eight round pills, which he presented to his lady with a flourish. “There you are, love.”

Musichetta slid her birth control into her pants pocket. “See you later,” she said, pressing a quick kiss to his hairline before striding away. Such a cattish way to show affection. He was glad he had one cat and one dog. Two dogs might have overwhelmed him.

“I don’t kiss all the patients,” he apologized to Marius. “That was my girlfriend.”

“Oh, did I miss Musi?” a melodic voice came from the doorway. “That’s a disappointment.”

At the sight of Cosette, Marius took on a kind of fizzy look. 

“What can we do for you today, mam’selle?” Joly asked, sitting on the stool near the door and kicking his feet.

“Papa sent me,” she said. “I told him it was nothing, but he wanted me to have it looked at.” She unbuttoned the cuff of her sleeve and rolled it back to reveal that her left wrist was swollen.

Joly frowned and rolled his stool over to her side. “What happened?”

“I was on a ladder getting a book off the top shelf,” Cosette said. “I slipped. It’s stupid. I’m not really hurt, I don’t think.”

“Cosette helps in the library, with the children and the books,” Joly told Marius. Small talk helped keep people calm. “All right, can you make a fist? Good. Wiggle your fingers? Hmm. Yes. I think you’re right, it’s only a sprain, but I’m glad you had it checked. Broken bones can be nasty, untreated.”

In the front of the medical closet were a number of miscellaneous non-pharmaceutical healthcare supplies, including a number of braces. “I think you should take a wrap for it, and go to the kitchen for ice. Try to rest the hand for at least a couple of days. Would you like some naproxen for the pain?”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Take a couple, anyway,” Joly said. “If it hurts too much tonight, you can take one later. If you end up not wanting them, we’ll take them back.” He gave her a wrist brace and a few naproxen capsules.

“Thanks, Joly. Sorry for wasting your time.” Cosette made herself small when she was getting too much attention. She wasn’t really a cat or a dog. She was more like a bird, Joly thought. A songbird in a cage.

“Not a waste at all,” he reassured her. “Will you manage in the library, with only one hand?”

Cosette rolled her eyes. “Combeferre has the class in order for the morning. I guess the books can wait. It’s not exactly mission critical.”

“I could help,” Marius volunteered. It was the first he’d spoken since she’d gotten there. Definitely a dog, Joly revised. 

Cosette bit her lip. “I don’t want to pull you from your work.”

Mirroring her, Marius bit his lip.

Joly was glad he was practically married. Flirting was exhausting.

“He’s only shadowing me,” he said, taking pity on them. “And I’ll have Combeferre this afternoon, so Marius can go help you in the library after lunch.” If asked, Joly would say he couldn’t use Marius and Cosette could. The work council would have to respect his ingenuity.

Marius was all but beaming.

Cosette looked pretty pleased herself. “That’s really great, thank you Marius, and Joly too.” Holding her injured arm protectively against her body, she turned for the door. “I’ll see you this afternoon at the library to go over what you can do for me.”

It took every ounce of professionalism in Joly’s body not to make a joke about that.

Joly’s plan was to get some records alphabetized and let Marius count bandages for the rest of the morning, but there was one more patient to contend with.

“Don’t freak out,” Bossuet said, “it’s not as bad as it looks.”

“I’m the expert on how bad things are,” Joly corrected him. “What did you do?”

“I cleaned up a broken plate, like I’m supposed to,” Bossuet said. “I was really careful! And then I slipped in a puddle on the floor and landed on the broken plate shards and sliced up my hand.”

“No more trading work assignments, it’s bad luck,” Joly huffed, looking at the bloody hand in question. “This is gonna need stitches.”

“It’s sexy when you’re being an expert,” Bossuet said placatingly, angling his face toward Joly’s.

“No, I’m not kissing you while you’re still bleeding,” Joly said. He shot a glance to Marius, who had abandoned all pretense of rolling bandages and was gaping at them. “Er, this is the only other patient I kiss. He’s my boyfriend.”

Marius reddened and focused on the bandages in his lap. 

By the time he sent Bossuet back to the Yellow Room for the day, with stitches and antibiotic ointment and a bandage swaddling his hand, it was after one PM.

“Let’s get lunch,” Joly sighed. He stood and stretched, his lower back aching from hunching over Bossuet’s hand to make the stitches as even as he could. Then he locked the door to the medicine closet and hung his stethoscope on the handle of the infirmary door. 

“That’s the sign we’re out for a break,” Joly explained. “If it’s an emergency, someone will find Combeferre or me in the dining room, but otherwise they know to come back later. Usually we take turns, but Combeferre was teaching this morning so we’ll have to make do.”

“He was on the perimeter when I got here,” Marius said. “Combeferre.”

Joly nodded. “Good shots take turns on guard duty. Combeferre wears a lot of hats.”

There was always fresh bread at lunch. Bread was Joly’s favorite food group. Today he had the choice to put chicken salad or hummus on it. He went with hummus. Joly wasn’t a vegetarian-- hardly anyone was, anymore-- but he sometimes got uneasy about mayonnaise. He trusted Musichetta and her staff, but it was often easier to let the worrying decide than to fight it, even when it was wrong.

“Hey.”

Joly turned to find Combeferre behind him. There was a book in his hand and he was using his finger to hold his place. “I’m going to head up, so you can take your time.”

Joly’s mouth was full, so he wordlessly pulled the dispensary key from his pocket and handed it to Combeferre.

By the time he’d finished lunch (including, yes, a little light feeding of Bossuet, who was a bit pathetic with only one working hand in a way Cosette wasn’t) and headed back to the East Wing, Combeferre was already seeing a patient.

“Can you stick your tongue out for me? And open your mouth big and wide…” Combeferre shone a light into the little boy’s mouth. “Good, thank you, Bress, stay just like that.” After a moment, he clicked his light off. “Okay. I’m going to sign you off for the afternoon. Come back if it gets any worse, but for now I think you’re fine with a rest.”

“It hurts,” the kid whimpered.

Combeferre smiled sympathetically. “All right, let me get you something to help with that.”

What he handed the boy looked like a chewable antacid to Joly.

“Do you want me to get one of your sisters to walk you back?” Combeferre asked.

Bress nodded.

“They’re busy,” someone else said from the door.

“Or Gavroche can do it,” Combeferre said without missing a beat.

“I want Zelle,” Bress whined.

“It’s me or nobody,” Gavroche said. “Come on, you’ll hurt my feelings.”

Bress still looked upset, but he let his brother wrap an arm around him. “My tummy hurts.”

“I told you not to eat that cheese,” Gavroche said, giving him a gentle squeeze. “It upsets your stomach, and you’re old enough to know better.” He scooped Bress up. At fourteen, he hadn’t had his growth spurt yet, and the seven-year-old was big for him to carry.

Combeferre sighed and leaned against the desk.

“Do you ever think about what you’d be doing if none of this had happened?” Joly asked him.

“I try not to,” Combeferre replied.

“I do,” Joly said. “I have this whole fantasy life where I’m studying for exams and inventing new and exciting combinations of energy drinks.”

Combeferre laughed. Even his laugh sounded tired.

Joly pressed his lips together. It had been three and a half days now. That was almost four. “Are you okay on your own for a bit?”

“Thinking of making a house call?”

He’d been made. There was no point in denial. “A barn call.”

Combeferre’s weary smile came back. “I have something you should take with you.” He walked to the medicine closet and plucked a bottle off a shelf, opened it and tapped free a couple of small white pills.

Joly looked at the pills and then back at Combeferre. “I was going to stop by the kitchen first for some sherry, but this is better.”

Combeferre shrugged. “I do have a good idea, on occasion.”

“You’re a good idea _factory_ ,” Joly said, hugging him. “Thank you.”

“Take these,” Combeferre deposited the pills in his hand, “and my regards.”

The latter would do more harm than good, so Joly wouldn’t. But he didn’t think there was anything to be served by saying so. “I’ll be back when I can.”

Stepping out the door of the house was like removing a layer of protective armor. He knew it was safe in the yard, but being in the open was unsettling. It was the cat in him.

The barn was the farthest of all the buildings from the main house. By the time he made it out that far, Joly’s ankles ached from navigating the uneven terrain. 

“And what are we smuggling into the barn today?” 

Joly squeezed his eyes closed. _Voice even_ , he counseled himself, pasting a smile on before turning around. “Hello, Monsieur Javert, how are you today?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Javert said, looking stern.

“There’s not a law against visiting my friend,” Joly said.

“There is if you’re carrying a controlled substance.”

Joly took a deep breath. “I’m in charge of deciding that, not you.” He was conscious of the pills in his pocket. “If you have a legitimate concern, you can raise it at the next meeting. But I have to be on my way now. Good day.”

After that, the pain of climbing the hayloft paled in comparison.

He limped away from the ladder, chewing his lip. It really wasn’t safe to be up here. What if there was a fire? What if--

“You’re thinking too loudly, it hurts my head.”

“Are you sure your head isn’t hurting all by itself?” Joly plopped himself in the pile of hay. “You don’t smoke in here, right?”

“Where would I get a hold of something to smoke?”

“I’m sure you’d manage,” Joly sighed. “How are you feeling?”

Grantaire did not remove his arm from over his eyes. “I bet you can guess.”

Joly pressed his fingers to the pulse point on Grantaire’s wrist. Fast and thready. Likely dehydrated. “I brought you some water. Think you can drink it?”

He didn’t answer, but he did take the bottle from Joly’s hand. “How mad are they?”

“No one’s mad at you,” Joly lied.

“Just disappointed, right?” Grantaire took a sip of the water, then replaced the cap and put the bottle down.

“Are you out?” He didn’t elaborate. He knew he didn’t have to.

“Yes.”

“How long ago?” Joly asked.

Grantaire twitched. “I don’t know. Yesterday sometime.” He squinted one bloodshot eye open. “Why, do you have something for me?”

“Not what you’re thinking.” Joly pulled one of the little pills out of his pocket and held it out.

“What is this?” Grantaire frowned. “Never mind, I don’t care.” He tipped his head back and took a little more water with the pill he lifted from Joly’s palm.

“It’s a benzo,” Joly said anyway. “We’re going to use that this time instead of tapering down.”

“That’s a shame,” Grantaire said. “I like tapering down.”

“No, you don’t,” Joly said.

“No, I don’t.”

There. At least tonight, when he was worrying himself awake, he could reassure himself Grantaire wasn’t dying. Maybe. “I don’t like you sleeping up here. What if there’s a fire?”

“I just told you I don’t smoke in here,” Grantaire said.

“Right. Okay. Right.”

“I can’t go back to the house, Joly.”

“I know.” Joly picked some of the hay out of Grantaire’s sweaty hair.

“Don’t touch me,” Grantaire groaned. “I’m gross.”

“No, you’re not.”

Grantaire’s mouth made the world’s smallest smile. Joly should give him an award. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Joly said again. “It isn’t your fault.”

“Yes it is.”

He knew Grantaire wouldn’t believe him, but he had to say it anyway. “No it isn’t.” Joly had a sense for when an old argument was about to break open and start bleeding fresh like their friendship’s connective tissue was degenerating from advanced scurvy. (Grantaire didn’t have scurvy. Joly fed him fruit several times a week.) That was when he cut the conversation off. “I’ll come back in the morning with more meds and some food.”

Grantaire winced. “I’m not going to want food, Joly.”

“I’ll bring stuff that’ll keep,” Joly compromised. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Winning arguments with Grantaire was rare when he was either drinking or not drinking, but during the transitions Joly had the upper hand. It wasn’t as fun to have the upper hand.

Sometimes Joly felt jealous of dogs, because a lot of the time the world seemed easier for them. But Grantaire was a dog, loyal and friendly, and the world wasn’t easy for him at all.

“I’m glad you’re a dog,” Joly told Bossuet later, as they laid down together for bed. 

“I like to think of myself as more of an eagle,” Bossuet said. 

Musichetta, who was already mostly asleep, said “No.” Then she rolled over and went the rest of the way to sleep.

“I’ll be a dog if it makes you happy,” Bossuet conceded.

“That’s why you’re a dog,” Joly tried to explain, but he was slurring from tiredness and he gave up. Five AM always came so early.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by the pancakes I made (mine are the uneven and blobby sort) and my career in a library, which I hope to return to one day.
> 
> I have adapted Shoujo Cosette names for the little boys since Hugo did not give them any.
> 
> If you're reading, please drop me a line. I'm very lonely and otherwise won't know you're here.


	3. compagnon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre seemed well enough after last night, and Enjolras had not sunburned on the roof. There were only two chairs, and they’d rather be equal than comfortable, so the three of them sat cross-legged in a cirlce on the floor, knees nearly touching. This wasn’t something they needed to discuss.
> 
> “What’s on the agenda?” Combeferre asked, notebook balanced on his right thigh while he cut into the block of cheese Courfeyrac had brought.

Courfeyrac jolted awake. It was too dark to be approaching morning and at first he wasn’t sure why he’d awoken. Then he realized there was heavy breathing coming from his left. 

Combeferre. 

“Hey,” he whispered, trying not to wake anybody else. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Combeferre’s voice was just a breath. “Sorry for waking you.”

“It happens to everybody.” The only person Courfeyrac knew without a regular rotation of nightmares was Enjolras, and that was just because he got so little sleep in the first place. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

It was too dark to see. Courfeyrac missed being able to turn on a light and make sure his friends were all right, almost as much as he missed being able to assume they were. “Want a hug?”

There was a pause while Combeferre considered it. Combeferre was someone who considered questions like that. “Yeah.”

Courfeyrac kicked off his blanket and crawled over to the corner where Combeferre slept. He cautiously extended his arms, feeling around for his friend. His fingers landed on a hand. Then, knowing where Combeferre was, it was easier to pull him into an embrace. 

Combeferre sat up just enough to collapse into Courfeyrac’s arms, his head cradled against Courfeyrac’s chest. 

The shirt Courfeyrac has worn to sleep grew damp. Combeferre was crying. 

Courfeyrac stroked his hair with gentle fingers. He wished he could tell Combeferre it was just a dream, that everything was all right. But that hadn’t been true for a long time. 

He fell back to sleep like that, nestled against the wall with Combeferre pillowed against him. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but that didn’t matter as much as it used to. The body accustomed itself to discomfort, if it had to. 

Combeferre was gone when he woke again. It was morning, this time; people were getting up and dressed for the day. As he blinked sleep from his eyes, he caught Marius glancing at him. He gave a little wave.

Marius slept on the other side of Courfeyrac, a few feet to his right. If it had been Marius crying last night, Courfeyrac would have talked more before offering to cuddle. He didn’t know Marius well enough yet to know whether physical contact would be welcome. Courfeyrac was touchy-feely, himself, but he knew not everyone was.

“Sleepover, huh?” Bahorel teased, nuding his foot.

“If you’re jealous, you can just ask for a turn,” Courfeyrac said, wiping his mouth in case he’d drooled. “I never say no.”

“Everybody knows that,” Bahorel agreed.

It had been over a year since Courfeyrac last had sex. Annette, from his civil law course. She was probably dead now. Before her, Isaac from the café. He was definitely dead; there’d still been such a thing as obituaries, then. It was weird to think how many of his sexual partners were dead now, or worse.

He missed it, sometimes. The way it felt to be with another person in that way. But the stakes were different, now. Close quarters. It wasn’t like if a relationship ended badly, he could change where he bought coffee and never have to see the person again. He’d always been kind of a shit boyfriend. He couldn’t risk complicating the dynamic of the work groups by continuing his serial romances. A decent friends with benefits setup, maybe, but those were hard to come by since the collapse of society. Intense situations bred intense feelings. Courfeyrac wasn’t going to mess with someone he wasn’t in love with just because his dick was lonely.

There were plenty of other ways to pass the time.

The lights in the bathroom didn’t turn on when he toggled the switch, which meant the generator had probably gone out again. He peeked out the window and saw, sure enough, that Éponine was darting around the gazebo where the generator resided. Another round of repairs.

It was chilly enough that Courfeyrac wanted a sweater, but he resisted. He’d only get warm later, take it off and set it down somewhere to be forgotten. He’d just have to keep moving to stay warm. That was the best way to keep from thinking too much, anyway. 

“You’re late,” Enjolras observed when he came down to breakfast. “Long night?”

“No longer than yours, I’m sure,” Courfeyrac said, setting his bowl of oatmeal on the table and swinging his legs over the dining bench. He scooted close enough that his shoulder touched Enjolras’s.

Enjolras lifted his mug and inhaled the steam. Since they’d seen the last of their coffee stash, Enjolras had taken to drinking a cup of boiling water every morning, like some kind of wellness-oriented scammer. Didn’t seem worth it to Courfeyrac, but it was a harmless quirk. If it made Enjolras happy, Courfeyrac was happy too.

Courfeyrac nudged him again. “What are you up to this morning?”

“Oh. Um. Feuilly needs help cleaning the gutters, so I figured I’d join him on the roof. You?”

“Well, I’m tempted to join you, but I thought Éponine might want a pair of hands today, since neither Bossuet nor Cosette can assist.”

Enjolras didn’t frown, but Courfeyrac knew him too well to miss the tension around his mouth and eyes. “Repairing the generator again?”

“I think she prefers the term maintenance,” Courfeyrac corrected. “Wear a hat on the roof, okay? I think it’s going to be sunny today.”

“Okay.” Enjolras rolled his eyes, but he would, probably, wear a hat. He wasn’t big on lying. If he said he’d do something, odds were good he’d do it. He drank some of his ridiculous hot water and stood up from the table. “I’ll see you this afternoon for council.”

Courfeyrac narrowed his eyes. “You said that like you’re reminding me, like I have ever forgotten to meet you.”

“You forgot to pick me up when I got out of jail,” Enjolras said.

“That was an isolated incident!”

“Twice.”

“Fine.” A grin spread across Courfeyrac’s face despite himself. “But I’m going to be there this afternoon. I’ll be early. I’ll be there first.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Mmm, you might beat me, but Combeferre will be there first. You and I, we’re just racing for second place.” He tipped the last of his water into his mouth and walked off, empty mug dangling from his fingers until he dropped it in the dirty dishes bin as he passed.

When Courfeyrac got to the gazebo, Éponine’s workbench was empty. She was there, though. The general state of chaos implied her presence.

“Ép?” he called, stepping over scattered tools. “Where are you?” 

“Mother _ fuck _ ,” Éponine’s muffled voice answered. “If you’re not here to help, get out.”

Courfeyrac moved toward the sound. There was a pair of legs sticking out from behind the generator. “I’m here to help,” he assured the legs. “What do you need?”

“Thank god,” Éponine said flatly. “Pass me the multimeter.”

Courfeyrac looked around.

She must have heard something in his silence, because after a beat she added “The thing that looks like a calculator with a dial on it.”

He found the requested tool in the mess on the floor and crouched beside the generator to pass it to her. She took it from his hands without thanks and started fiddling with something around the back of the generator.

“Is he gonna make it?” he joked.

Éponine pressed her lips together, not looking away from the wires in her hands. There was a smudge of grease on her forehead, just under the strap of her headlamp. “We’re getting six more months out of it if I have anything to say about it. Can you get me a flathead?”

Courfeyrac went to the tool box and peered at it. “Um.”

“Screwdriver.” Maybe he was imagining it, but he thought he heard a smile in her voice.

“Screwdriver!” He announced triumphantly, delivering it.

“Great.” She set the multimeter down on the floor. “Hold this panel for me.”

He slid behind the generator, beside her. “Like this?”

“Yeah.” Éponine placed the screws and twisted the handle of her screwdriver. “You can let go now.” She did the screws the rest of the way. “Okay, wanna see if it boots back up?”

Courfeyrac blinked. “It’s… not on?”

She looked disappointed in him. “You can’t work with electrics when they’re on.” She stood up, dusted off her pants and offered him a hand. “Come on, let’s hit the switch. Don’t be shy.”

He leaned forward and hit the start button.

After a second, the generator growled its way to life.

Éponine’s eyes closed as she let out a relieved sigh. “Still got legs.”

“Six months. You mean that?”

“If we’re lucky. I’m pretty confident I can kick it through winter, but there’s no way it’s going to last another year. We could try to replace it come spring, but I’m not sure how much time it’ll buy us before fuel becomes prohibitive.” She shrugged. “Enjoy electricity while you can.”

That wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for. He might not have had an answer he’d hoped for since Annette from his civil law course.

“I’ll take it to the council,” Courfeyrac sighed. “See if we want to risk looking for something. There’s no way we could convert one of these to run on biodiesel?”

Éponine shook her head. “You can, but it’s corrosive. Lowers the lifespan of the machinery. Plus, I don’t know if you know how much fuel it burns to heat the house, but I don’t think we have the acreage to grow it ourselves.”

Some things about the demise of global capitalist industry titans were unambiguously good. But damn it, Courfeyrac was really going to miss electricity, if it came to that.

He made his way to Enjolras’s office that afternoon with a picnic basket in hand. Sometimes Enjolras neglected to come down to grab lunch. Acts of service were his love language, so Courfeyrac rarely turned up to council meetings empty-handed. 

He was the last one there, but neither Enjolras nor Combeferre really minded.

Combeferre seemed well enough after last night, and Enjolras had not sunburned on the roof. There were only two chairs, and they’d rather be equal than comfortable, so the three of them sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor, knees nearly touching. This wasn’t something they needed to discuss.

“What’s on the agenda?” Combeferre asked, notebook balanced on his right thigh while he cut into the block of cheese Courfeyrac had brought.

Enjolras poured them each a glass of water. “Joly said something about work assignments. We should have some kind of evaluation to make sure people are still happy where they are.”

Combeferre wrote it down. “Good. Courfeyrac?”

“Horticulture has asked me to speak on their behalf,” Courfeyrac said. “They want to allocate a bed in the greenhouse for a new crop.”

Combeferre’s pen stilled. “They don’t need approval to change the balance of the greenhouse.”

Courfeyrac hummed. “They do for this.”

“What’s the new crop?” Enjolras asked.

“Marijuana.”

“What?” Enjolras’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Because they’re bored, and they work hard at making sure we all get to eat, and they want to have a little fun.” He shrugged. “They also hinted at supplying it to the infirmary for medical use, so if you want to loop Joly into this, C, I think they’d be fine with that.”

Combeferre nodded. “We’ll discuss it. I’ll see what he thinks.”

“Who in horticulture specifically had this idea?” Enjolras asked.

“Not pertinent,” Courfeyrac argued. “They were in consensus when they came to me.”

“I think it would be a popular proposal,” Combeferre said.

Enjolras’s lips were at a skeptical angle. “I have reservations.”

Combeferre gestured toward him. “Expand on that.”

“Intoxicants,” Enjolras said. “It doesn’t seem safe to be out of one’s senses when we could be in danger at any time.”

“Understood,” Combeferre acceded.

“We can’t control whether everyone is ready to fight,” Courfeyrac argued. “Our fortifications are good. We take precautions. If this is our new permanent, and right now we have no reason to believe it isn’t, we have to find a way to make that livable for people. Marijuana isn’t addictive or deadly, and if we’re reasonably safe here, I don’t think occasional use unnecessarily jeopardizes the community.”

“So we propose regulations,” Combeferre suggested. “Horticulture turns their harvest over, and adults who opt in get a certain allotment. We restrict the number of people who can use it on any given day, ensuring there are enough able fighters in the event of an emergency.”

Enjolras did not stop frowning, but Courfeyrac could see him considering the idea. “We’ll bring it to a vote.”

Combeferre tapped his pen against his notebook. “When’s the next supply run?”

“Next week. We want to get one more in before it gets cold. Why?”

“I think I should go out,” Combferre said.

Enjolras pulled his knees to his chest. “You’re not eligible. You went last time.”

Combeferre set his pen down. “We need insulin. No one else will know what they’re looking for.”

Courfeyrac looked at him. “Is it bad?”

“Not yet. But it will be, in about six weeks, if we can’t find more.” Combeferre rubbed his head. “I’m worried. There’s a finite supply, and it’s perishable. Without a way to make more of it…” He took a deep breath. “People will die. I just want to avoid that for as long as we can.”

Enjolras nodded. “Okay. That’s not a voting issue. You’ll go, and do it quietly so no one panics. We’ll disqualify the families from participation so they don’t see what you’re doing and… hope you find something.”

Combeferre nodded. 

“On a similar note,” Courfeyrac said, “I have another action item.”

Combeferre turned his palm upward, indicating a  _ please do go on _ attitude.

“I was talking to Éponine about the generator this morning.”

Enjolras stood up and grabbed a bowl of almonds from his desk. He set this on the floor next to the picnic basket offerings, and popped a few in his mouth.

“She thinks she can keep it running six more months, but after that we’ll need to make some decisions.”

“What are our options?” Combeferre asked, picking his pen back up.

“Well, we can try to find a replacement. It might not be easy, but there are probably some still out there. But there’s a question of diminishing returns if we lug a generator out here and can’t find any fuel to run it.”

Enjolras leaned against the wall behind him. “We can’t operate it on biodiesel like the ATV?”

Courfeyrac shook his head. “We run the ATV for a few hours once every few months. We don’t have enough leftover cooking oil to power the whole house long-term, and we can’t produce it ourselves even if we cut our food cultivation in half. We need petroleum, and we don’t have a way to keep getting it, months or years down the line.”

“We can try to ration it,” Combeferre said. “Cut the hours down more, restrict the appliances, eliminate unnecessary uses of electricity.”

Enjolras winced. “People aren’t going to like that.”

“They’ll like going without it entirely even less,” Courfeyrac said. “That’s where we’re headed, sooner or later.”

“Let’s put that to a vote too,” Enjolras sighed. “Come up with some proposed guidelines, see what people can live with. And live without.”

Combeferre wrote it down. “Marijuana’s definitely going to pass once they find out about the generator.”

There was no further business, but none of them got up to leave. They so rarely got to be alone together anymore. 

Courfeyrac rested his head on Enjolras’s shoulder. They watched as Combeferre wrote out a draft of the new energy restrictions, and Courfeyrac could almost pretend they were back at university. Almost. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well I did intend to get into family dinner (it's Courfeyrac's favorite part of the day) but it'll have to wait.
> 
> this chapter brought to you by my adoration of logistics and my indecision about who should be fucking whom. so for now courf fucks nobody but he does have an elaborate, pages-long discussion about the rules of society. you're welcome.


	4. l'assemblee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel stepped up to the gong and swung the mallet at it.
> 
> Cosette covered her ears but even so she felt the sound in her whole body. 
> 
> The meeting had officially begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads-up there is some minor sexual content but i'd bet good money it's not what you're expecting.

The top shelf was uneven. If Cosette had two working hands she’d have planted her fists on her hips in frustration. How could these bookshelves keep losing pegs? She’d have to see if she could sweet-talk someone in maintenance into doing some light carpentry to make her some spares. Bahorel was her best bet, probably. He was handy. 

“Are there any more books, mademoiselle?”

After three days in the library, Marius still insisted on calling her _mademoiselle_. People were often too formal with her. Because of Papa, she supposed. It had probably been happening for years but she’d never noticed it until La Republique moved in downstairs and everyone was so familiar with each other, except for her. She didn’t know what to do to make them like her more. She tried not to set herself apart. She’d given up most of her possessions and made over some of her clothing into garments that other people could use. 

But still they held her at arm’s length. Though none so much as her temporary helper, whom she could not induce to call her by her name. 

“No more books,” she announced. “We have to finish up early, for the meeting.”

Ordinarily she didn’t leave work unfinished. Not unless she lost the light. When day started to recede, that was when they had dinner. 

But Mondays and Thursdays they had meetings before dinner. They weren’t required to vote, or even to attend, but in practice almost everyone who lived in the house came. Some of the parents of small children took turns so someone could watch the kids, but others just brought them along. 

Tonight, for example, a sampling of her students were clustered in the corner being entertained by Gavroche. He hadn’t considered himself a kid in as long as she’d known him, but by dint of having assumed the care of Bress and Hugues, he was grouped with the children more often than not. As she watched, he bent forward and produced something shiny from behind Hugues’s ear. A bottle cap or something. 

“That’s good sleight-of-hand,” Cosette said. “Would you show me how sometime?”

Gavroche glowered at her. Cosette tried to remember how hard it was to be fourteen and not take it personally. “Why? Don’t they keep you busy enough?”

“It’s cool, that’s all.”

He snorted. “Yeah, if you’re five.”

“Have a heart, Gav.” An arm slid around the boy’s shoulder. Éponine kept her eyes on Cosette, though, with a mocking smile. “She just needs a hobby, don’t you, Princess?”

Cosette felt her cheeks flush as she looked down at her feet. “Another time, maybe,” she said, and pushed her way toward the front of the room.

Marius, who had followed her silently down the stairs and into the Heart, cleared his throat behind her. “Does it matter where we sit?”

She shook her head. “I usually sit with Papa, that’s all. There’s not a rule or anything.” Scanning the clumps of people, she spotted him in an armchair near the fire. She craned on her toes to wave at him. He didn’t see her, apparently deep in conversation with the Inspector. Not a nice conversation, if the furrow of his brow was anything to go by. That wasn’t surprising; the two men were often on opposite sides of an issue.

“I’m headed that way,” she said, turning toward Marius. “You can come with me if you like.”

He looked where she pointed. At first, he didn’t seem to realize what she was indicating, but after a moment he shook his head and backed away. “I… no, that’s okay.”

No surprises there either, really. Sometimes people responded to Papa that way.

“Hello, Inspector. Hi, Papa.” She kissed her father’s cheek with a smile. “All well today?”

The Inspector huffed. “As well as can be expected, mademoiselle.”

“Please, have the seat,” Papa said, gripping the arms of the chair.

Cosette put her hand on top of one of his. “Nonsense. I’m happy where I am.” She settled herself on the floor in front of the chair, her back pressed against his legs. She felt his hand on her hair, and it made her feel warm and protected, like a child.

Bahorel stepped up to the gong and swung the mallet at it.

Cosette covered her ears but even so she felt the sound in her whole body. 

The meeting had officially begun.

Enjolras clasped his hands behind himself. “Welcome, everyone. We have a few announcements. First, we’re instituting evaluations on work placements. Part of that is going to involve getting your feedback about the work you’ve done this past year, so we wanted to let you know so you can start thinking about what you’ll want to say. We don’t know yet exactly what that process will look like, so if anyone would like to help design something that will keep everyone happy and productive, let someone on the council know after the meeting. Otherwise, we’ll tell everyone when we have more information.”

There were a few murmured comments.

Enjolras pressed on. “With winter coming on, we’ve also set the date for the last planned supply run for the season. The team heading out next Saturday will be comprised of Musichetta, Bahorel, and Combeferre.”

More murmurs at that. Relief, mostly, from the people who weren’t chosen. But there was also a frisson of tension; no one liked for their loved ones to cross the border, and occasionally someone questioned the fairness of the selection process. It hadn’t come to anything serious so far, because the lottery was well-documented and witnessed by a rotating cast of honorable characters, but still. Runs scared people. Cosette couldn’t blame them. If her father ever got picked, she’d be terrified.

“Does anyone else have urgent business that was not brought to the council for the agenda?” He paused. “All right. We do have two issues to put up for vote. To announce, I’ll turn over to Courfeyrac.” 

Courfeyrac stepped forward and Enjolras retreated to the shadows beside the fireplace. “Thanks. This is the fun part.”

The crowd relaxed a little when Courfeyrac was driving the meetings. Not that Enjolras did a bad job, but there was just a different vibe. Courfeyrac seemed like the grown-up version of a school football club captain, friendly and motivational, where Enjolras was more like the intense kid in your group project nobody joked around with.

“I’ve got two topics for you. We’re not going to decide either of them today, just discuss, so everyone can take until Monday to decide how they want to vote.” Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “Okay, first is an agricultural concern. It’s a motion that we add to our list of cultivated crops a small number of marijuana plants.”

Giggling. And a few gasps.

“Arguments for include medical uses as well as recreational, arguments against include diverting attention from nutritive plants and the health and safety risk of cultivating intoxicants. The plan includes designation of a maximum amount of tillage for use for that purpose; a set amount for use in the infirmary; regulations including a set allotment per month and a schedule of use to prevent impairment of too many citizens at once; and penalties for improper use, including in areas near minors. Are there any points, in favor or against, anyone would like to add before the group?”

“What about the law?” The Inspector snapped.

Enjolras leaned into the light. “We are the law, Monsieur Javert.” No one still called him Inspector but Cosette and her Papa.

Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “The specifics will be made available in the library for anyone interested to peruse.” He smiled tightly. “Now, the other matter is rather more serious. I’m afraid it’s been brought to our attention that our trusty generator is reaching the end of its lifespan.”

There was an honest outcry after this.

He held up a hand. “There is no reason to panic. We are not in imminent danger of losing power. However, we have some difficult choices to make. If we want to continue using electricity through next spring and beyond, we will need to acquire a new one from outside. That means more and farther supply searches, with no guarantee of success. It also means placing further restrictions on use of electricity such as shortened hours of use and more forbidden appliances. I know that’s nobody’s favorite thing to hear, but it’s important that you know the realities we’re facing.” 

Courfeyrac looked around the room. “I’m sure you’ll have questions in the coming days. We ask that you reserve those for the next meeting, which we will use in part to discuss our options before the vote. Our former way of life is at an end, and we must consider the way forward.”

Enjolras took his spot by Courfeyrac’s side. They squeezed hands briefly, then Enjolras said “If no one has further subjects to discuss, we’ll conclude there for today.”

After a moment of glum silence, Bahorel took his spot by the gong.

“Meeting adjourned, motherfuckers,” he said, and swung his mallet.

Dinner was a subdued affair of salad and pasta. At least, it was subdued for the first twenty minutes. Then Jehan Prouvaire climbed on top of the dining bench and started reciting The Odyssey from memory. It was impressive, really; she’d never have been able to remember so many lines.

“I’ll take your plate,” she whispered to Papa, when both were finished eating.

He frowned. “Your arm.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can carry them with my other hand.” She kissed his cheek again when he finally relinquished the plate, and took his plate as well as her own to the dishes bin.

Sometimes she helped clean dishes after dinner, but with her wrist in a brace she wasn’t likely to be much help. Still, that habit meant she wouldn’t be missed when she slipped not back toward the library, not to her own bedroom, but to the garage.

Cosette had been twenty-one already when the dead started waking, and well beyond teenage rebellion like sneaking out of the house. But she’d never been a rebel in adolescence, just the kind of girl whose classmates’ parents had wondered why their own children couldn’t be more like, a girl who decorated cakes for the church fundraiser and stayed home with her father on the weekends and didn’t date. She’d been saving it up for after the collapse of society, apparently.

She didn’t turn the lights on in the garage. She liked it better in the dark, and she wasn’t afraid. Not here.

“I thought you might be here,” a familiar voice said.

Cosette grinned, even though she knew she couldn’t be seen in the shadows. “The signs were right. Did you put Prouvaire up to it?”

“Nah,” Éponine said. “I didn’t have to.” She nuzzled Cosette’s hair. “God, you feel amazing.”

Cosette craned her neck back to allow for better kissing. “Is it true about the generator?”

Éponine licked up Cosette’s collarbone before answering. “Yeah. I’d say nine months at the outside.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Cosette whispered, partly because of the generator and partly because of Éponine’s teeth on her earlobe.

“Darkness isn’t all bad, little dove,” Éponine murmured, giving her a squeeze.

Cosette wrinkled her nose. “Don’t call me that.”

“As you wish, Princess.” Éponine kissed her on the mouth then, and neither of them talked for a little while.

Éponine’s hand cupped Cosette’s thigh. The kissing was greedy, like it always was, and Cosette found herself pushed back against the ATV, sideview mirror by her head. She wrapped her arms around Éponine’s neck and lifted one leg to hook it around Éponine’s hip.

Éponine groaned. “You’re killing me.”

“Mmm, wanna bet?” Cosette pressed back, angling up to reach Éponine’s mouth as Éponine’s fingers fiddled with Cosette’s dress buttons. “Hey, that was weird with Gav earlier, right?”

“Ew, don’t talk about my brother when we’re hooking up.”

Cosette nipped along Éponine’s jawline. “I just don’t get why he doesn’t like me. Zelle likes me. Bress and Hugues like me.”

“Not everybody has to like you, Princess,” Éponine growled, and silenced her worries with another kiss on the lips.

But they still hadn’t moved past kissing when Cosette pulled away. “Did you hear that?”

For a second, she thought she’d imagined it. It was natural to be jumpy about unknown noises. But across the inches of breath between them, she felt Éponine go still, listening. 

“It sounds like…” Cosette trailed off, listening to the undeniable sound of footsteps over their heads.

“The stairs,” Éponine whispered. “Goddamn workaholic.”

It seemed they weren’t the only ones who had taken advantage of the last hour or so of fading twilight to leave the dining room early. The over-garage apartment that had once belonged to the housekeeper was now the council office. Officially, it belonged to everyone, but in practice Enjolras was the person who used it most. He was there night and day. As far as Cosette knew, he slept there. If he slept anywhere.

Still, it wasn’t like they had anything to worry about. Enjolras couldn’t see or hear them from upstairs, and they weren’t breaking any rules. They’d found someplace private, which was what people were supposed to do.

“Fuck it,” Cosette muttered, and reached for Éponine’s belt.

This time it was Éponine who stopped her. “Shh, listen.”

She strained to hear. It was hard to make out. “Is that…?”

“Do you think he talks to himself up there?” Éponine breathed.

“Maybe,” Cosette said. But… no, that was definitely a second voice. “Someone’s up there with him.”

The second voice didn’t carry as well. She couldn’t tell who it was. Enjolras’s answers, though she couldn’t hear individual words, were soft. At first.

Then: “Who told you that?” Enjolras turned harsh, almost yelling.

“No one had to tell me anything. I’m good at math.” The second voice rose in accompaniment.

“ _R_ ,” Éponine said.

Cosette hadn’t seen Grantaire since he’d poached Marius’s tour and also his scotch. It was weird for him to be out of the barn this soon. Following his previous incidents with alcohol, it took at least two weeks for him to resurface at meals and events.

“You can’t send him,” Grantaire said above their heads.

“It’s already been decided,” Enjolras replied. 

“Send me instead.”

Cosette unhooked her foot from the step on the ATV she’d been using for leverage and moved toward the source of the sound.

“ _Cosette_ ,” Éponine hissed, but ultimately followed her.

The voices were a little clearer toward the rear corner of the garage. “--I can do this,” Grantaire was pleading. “You don’t have to send Combeferre again. I can go, I can do this for you.”

There was a pause in the conversation, and then Enjolras’s voice again, too low for Cosette to hear clearly.

Whatever he’d said, though, it made Grantaire even louder. “If you think you’re protecting me, don’t bother. No one here cares if I die. I sure don’t. But if you tell me what you need, at least I can die useful.”

“It’s too big a risk.” Enjolras still didn’t match his in volume. 

“Oh, _I’m_ too big of a risk? Is that it? But your good little soldiers in there, it’s fine if _they_ die--”

“That’s enough!” The scrape of a chair on the floor, and creaking footsteps over their heads. “You don’t have to believe in what we’re doing here, but you have to let us do it.”

This time it was Grantaire’s voice that was nearly inaudible.

“Well, try acting like it, then,” Enjolras replied.

“You think it’s a ploy,” Grantaire said. “You think-- fuck, you think I’m conning you.”

“ _Aren’t you_?” 

The door above them opened and slammed, followed by more footsteps running back down the office stairs.

To Cosette’s horror, the same door she’d used to enter the garage opened, and Grantaire walked in. He didn’t look as terrible as she’d have expected him to. Which wasn’t to say he looked good. “Now who doesn’t believe in whom,” he muttered, swiping at his face with his sleeve.

She tried to make herself as small as possible in the hope that he wouldn’t notice them in the shadows. 

Éponine’s breath was warm on the back of her neck. 

There were sounds of him rummaging through the cabinets. Things falling over. Something rolling across the floor.

“Motherfuck,” Grantaire hissed.

Éponine stepped away from Cosette. “You’re not going to find it.”

Grantaire’s head snapped up. “What am I not going to find?”

“Whatever you’re looking for. Bahorel went through supplies weeks ago to make sure there wasn’t any ethanol in an unlocked cabinet.”

He exhaled shakily. “Well, this is embarrassing. I don’t suppose there are any _locked_ cabinets I can break into.”

Éponine moved further toward him and pulled something out of her pocket. “Want a smoke?”

“Better than nothing,” he said grimly. “Don’t get me hooked on these or I’ll never forgive you.”

Cosette heard the flicking of Éponine’s lighter. “Don’t tell my family I’ve got these. Azelma would flip.”

“I don’t think you can hide it from them,” he said. “The smell alone…”

“Hey,” Éponine said. “Do you want a hug?”

“Hugging with cigarettes, very daring.” But Cosette watched as Éponine wrapped her arms around him and his eyes closed.

Which meant they were pointed right at her when he reopened them.

“Well, well,” he drawled, holding his lit cigarette by his face. “Cosy and Nina. I must say, you had me fooled.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Cosette begged. There were rumors about people getting caught hooking up, of course there were; she just didn’t want to be one.

“She’s ashamed of me,” Éponine quipped.

“It was your idea to keep it secret in the first place,” Cosette snapped.

Grantaire puffed on his cigarette. “Look, I’d love to tease you about this, but I’m not really up to it. So let’s have this one free: I forget what I saw, you forget what you saw, we’re all blind for this moment and we never speak of it again.”

“Deal.” Éponine winked at her. “Want me to walk you back to the barn?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

Éponine wiggled her fingers in a saucy wave to Cosette. “Stay safe, Princess. Have a good night in the tower.”

Well. That hadn’t gone how Cosette had expected.

She crept through the halls of the house in the dimming light and back up to her bedroom. It had inarguably altered from the days of her childhood spent there-- no vanity, mattress directly on the floor-- but it had changed less than anyone else’s living situation. She tried not to feel guilty about this. Mostly she failed.

A gentle knock on her door. “Cosette?”

She pulled the sheets up to hide that she was still dressed, that her dress was dirty. “Come in.”

Papa entered, a worried look on his face already evaporating at the sight of her. “I thought I heard something.”

“It’s just me, going to bed.” Cosette smiled. “Now you go to bed, too.”

“Good night, my girl,” he said, standing in her doorway like he had every night for fifteen years. “See you in the morning.”

She blew him a kiss and listened as he walked next door to his own room.

She stayed awake long enough to hear the generator cut out for the night, and wondered if that silence would soon be permanent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you order some drama? well it says here someone ordered drama. did i SURPRISE you?


	5. zastępca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bring me some salt, will you?” At Enjolras’s blank look, Feuilly smiled. “I’m in charge of dinner tonight and I’ve got no crew. I might as well make use of you, since you’re here.”
> 
> Enjolras opened the pantry and fumbled around for salt. “I don’t think the kitchen plays to my strengths. I don’t want to poison everyone.”
> 
> “You’re not going to poison anyone. You’re going to do exactly what I tell you and it’s going to go perfectly.”

First, the eggs. The oldest ones were always at the front of the cabinet, so it was those Feuilly cracked into the bowl. There were fewer fresh eggs now, as the days shortened; soon they’d be down to what they had beaten and frozen in bags for the winter. Soon, but not yet.

Losing the freezer would be a huge adjustment. Musichetta had been measured in her arguments on Monday-- of course she had, she’d be the one out there looking for a new generator, come Saturday-- but she’d wanted the voters to understand how much food would change if they lost refrigeration. Unsurprisingly, the vote had gone toward more restrictions with the aim of extending the life of the generator.

The new use restrictions meant Feuilly couldn’t use the mixer to beat his eggs, but he didn’t mind; he liked doing things by hand. He gripped the bowl with one hand and with his other took a large whisk and started whipping.

“Hey, I need a fav-- oh, sorry.” Enjolras stopped in the doorway. “Where’s Musichetta?”

“She’s with Bahorel, checking on repairs to the chicken coop for winter.” Feuilly paused. “You can probably catch them. They just left a few minutes ago.”

Enjolras sighed. “No, I don’t-- it’s not that important. I can get her later.” 

He looked awful, with dark circles under his eyes. Feuilly wanted to hug him, but Enjolras was sometimes weird when offered a hug, like he had to prove he didn’t need one. Feuilly would have to find another way. 

“Bring me some salt, will you?” At Enjolras’s blank look, Feuilly smiled. “I’m in charge of dinner tonight and I’ve got no crew. I might as well make use of you, since you’re here.”

Enjolras opened the pantry and fumbled around for salt. “I don’t think the kitchen plays to my strengths. I don’t want to poison everyone.”

“You’re not going to poison anyone. You’re going to do exactly what I tell you and it’s going to go perfectly.” Once Enjolras found the salt, Feuilly took it from him. “Thank you.” He gestured to a stool at the kitchen island. “Have a seat.”

Enjolras took it. “What are you making?”

“Pierogi. I usually use Jehan for this, but he has a permanent assignment now. I don’t see why I can’t teach you.”

It helped, to work with his hands. It kept his mind off worrying whether his friends were about to die on the supply run. Feuilly didn’t see why he couldn’t share that with Enjolras, at least in private. Besides, Enjolras made a good assistant. People forgot that. They got so used to letting him tell them what to do that they forgot that it might be nice for him to receive instructions every now and then. 

Feuilly measured out the water and poured it into the bowl of beaten eggs, along with the salt. He set the bowl in front of Enjolras and handed him the whisk. “Here, stir this.”

Enjolras looked uncertain, but he took the whisk and moved it in gentle circles through the liquid.

Feuilly nodded in satisfaction and returned to the pantry for a sack of flour. This was the real stuff, from before, ground and bleached by professional machinery. When they stopped being able to find that on supply trips, they’d be more limited. Their crop production was pretty good, and the culinary team did their best, but there really wasn’t any homemade substitute for industrial farming.

“I made kind of a mess,” Enjolras confessed.

“That’s okay, flour does that.” He thumped the sack on the counter. “Good, that looks mixed.” He lifted the whisk from Enjolras’s hands and tapped it on the side of the bowl. He measured flour from the bag and dumped it into the egg mixture. “Here, you’ll want a spoon for this. Mix that together.”

To say Enjolras’s face relaxed as he attempted to moisten the flour without dumping it on the counter would have been mistruth. If anything, he was intent in his frustration, his brow furrowed and lips pursed. But determination robbed him of that weary, hopeless look he’d had when he’d come to the kitchen. 

Feuilly repeated the steps in a second mixing bowl. He’d need plenty of dough to feed the whole republic. It was better to have too much than not enough. Whatever didn’t get eaten tonight, they’d freeze to save for a leftover buffet over the winter. It gave Feuilly pleasure to know that he was part of making a surplus of food, even if they were frugal enough not to let it go to waste. He’d lived on less than enough for a long time, but no one had to do that here.

When his own flour was sufficiently wet, he peeked at Enjolras’s bowl. Passable enough. 

“All right, now we knead.” He stuck his hands into his own dough. “You don’t have to take it out of the bowl or anything. Just keep messing with it until it feels right. You want it to feel firm and consistent. No lumps.” He liked the texture of the dough, and its resistance to his attention. This was the second-best part of the whole process.

“Is… is this firm?”

Feuilly reached into Enjolras’s bowl and prodded his dough. “Almost,” he said encouragingly. “You want it to feel like this.” He held out his own dough ball for comparison. “I think you’ll have it in another minute.”

Soon enough, the dough was formed. Feuilly took a baking sheet and set it over the two bowls. “We’re going to let that sit for an hour before we punch it out.”

“What now?” Enjolras asked, picking dough remnants off his hands.

“Now,” Feuilly announced, “we prepare the fillings.”

He was doing several fillings, to suit the variety of tastes: potato, cheese, cabbage, some ground meat he took out of the freezer, and various combinations thereof. That was enough to keep them busy until the dough was ready to be rolled and cut.

Potatoes would take the longest. “Here, you can wash these for me and I’ll get started cutting them.” Feuilly set an armload of potatoes into one side of the separated sink, as he let a large pot fill with water on the other side. He salted the water heavily, then set the pot on the stovetop to fill with chopped potatoes.

The stove was gas, which was a little more efficient than running the generator on gas to power an electric range. He’d need one burner for boiling potatoes, one for sautéeing onions, one for boiling cabbage, and one for cooking the meat. They had the pans for that, though he’d have to wash one to have it ready to boil again when the pierogi were filled. Azelma might be in by then, though, to help.

Feuilly hummed a little as he worked, a snatch of Chopin. Cosette was teaching him to play the piano, but they both feared it might be only a matter of time before the instrument joined the rest of the furniture on the barricade. Exceptions had been made for matters of art, but a piano was large and heavy, and thus useful in a way a guitar wasn’t. 

When the potatoes had been dispatched, Feuilly gave Enjolras the cheese to grate and turned himself to the matter of cooking the meat and onions. With his back turned, it felt safe to finally ask “What were you looking for Musichetta about?”

He couldn’t see Enjolras, but he felt the frown nonetheless. “Gavroche. He ambushed me in the arsenal earlier and begged to have a gun.”

“What did you say?”

“The thing I always say to him, which is that children don’t handle weapons here.” Enjolras sounded tense, and no wonder. “Is the cheese supposed to be like this?”

Feuilly looked over his shoulder. “Ah, yeah, the texture’s weird. That’s what happens when you make your own cheese. It’ll be fine. Did Gavroche say anything back?”

“He said he’s a better shot than I am, which might be true. But I’m not sending a teenager on patrols.” Enjolras huffed. “I thought I’d see if Musichetta had any odd jobs she could give him, to make him feel more useful. He’s not a little kid, and maybe if we show him we know and value that he’ll be more likey to accept the boundaries we do set. I don’t know.”

Once the meat was browned, Feuilly cut the burner. The cabbage and potatoes were both growing tender, so he drained them at the sink and fetched the masher. The Madeleines had a real one; as a kid, he’d used the bottoms of water glasses. The real thing was easier, but Feuilly found comfort in knowing workarounds.

The heat and effort brought sweat to his face that curled the tendrils of his hair up by his face, but he didn’t mind. Like kneading, the mashing was fun.

Once the fillings were ready and cooling, Feuilly returned to the counter opposite and sprinkled a layer of flour on it. He lifted the pan off the bowls of dough. “Beautiful.” He took half of one of the dough balls and plopped it on the floured countertop. “Now we cut.”

The benefit of working in a kitchen that had been outfitted by a wealthy man was in the accoutrements. Like a potato masher, the Madeleines had provided an extruder and a variety of cookie cutters. Evidently Cosette had been something of a budding pastry chef as a teenager, and if it wasn’t terribly practical knowledge for feeding a village, at least it meant they had supplies.

He selected a round cutter about three inches in diameter. “I’m going to flatten the dough so all you have to do is cut the circles out.”

Enjolras nodded and took the cutter. 

Feuilly felt him watching as he used the rolling pin to turn the dough from a thick ball to something resembling a sheet. It was physical work. Some people didn’t know that about a kitchen, how demanding it could be. But he knew Enjolras would appreciate the effort, even if he didn’t understand how cooking worked in general, which he didn’t. As far as Feuilly knew, Enjolras had lived on a student’s diet of popcorn and instant noodles, before their change in circumstances.

Change in circumstances. That was one of Enjolras’s euphemisms, but Feuilly liked it. It was honest without being overly dire. Feuilly was optimistic by nature. He found plenty to be grateful for, in a secure settlement where his friends were safe and they had what they needed. They could do worse. Feuilly knew that better than most.

He fed the dough through the extruder. He didn’t have to work the crank too hard; the dough only needed to get as thin as a third of a centimeter. He could’ve done it with the rolling pin. He had before. But it took longer, and he had other tasks to get to.

When the first sheet of dough was thin enough, he laid it out for Enjolras to cut. He did the rest of the dough the same way, then returned to the stovetop. The cabbage was cool enough to be drained and handled, so he chopped it into thin shreds and put it in one of the now-empty bowls he’d used for dough. The pot he’d taken it from he put in the sink for washing. The potatoes, mashed and seasoned, he likewise scraped into a dough ball so he could reuse their pot too.

He paused to take in the look of concentration on Enjolras’s face as he teased a circle of dough free from the sheet. His work cure had done its job. Feuilly indulged in a smile as he lined the fillings up along the edge of the island and stuck a spoon in each one. “Hey, look here for a second.” He scooped a dollop of potatoes into the center of a dough circle, then grabbed a pinch of the cheese to put on top. “That’s how full we want them, okay? Any combinations you want, go wild. Just make sure to keep them together so we remember which is which.”

After setting Enjolras loose on the fillings, Feuilly gathered up the dough scraps and ran them through the extruder to form a runoff sheet of dough, which he then punched into more circles, until eventually there wasn’t enough left for a circle. He preserved the dough scrap in case they needed help with any seals. He doubted they would, but it was silly to freeze such a tiny amount of dough.

Then he washed the large pots he’d removed the cabbage and potatoes from, and filled them again with water, which he once again salted heavily. These he set to boil, then rejoined Enjolras at the island.

“Fillings look good,” he encouraged. This was his favorite part, the part where he turned a dozen isolated ingredients into a meal. This was Jehan’s favorite part, too, because his gentle hands made the folding like artwork. Someone else might come by, too; if they did, he’d set them to work sealing pierogi. He wasn’t possessive of the magic. He just liked to see it done.

He pressed the edges of the first circle together around the filling, crimping the edges with his fingers. As he closed them, he sorted the pierogi by type. It was important that when he put them at the table he be able to tell everyone what was in which. They were lucky enough that no one had serious food allergies, except Joly’s to shellfish, which was pretty immaterial at this point, since they weren’t on an ocean, and a nut allergy in one of the kids that meant they were very careful about contamination, but there were preferences, and they liked to make it possible for people to have control over what they ate, within reason.

Azelma came in just as Enjolras was finishing with the last of the filling. 

“Perfect timing, Zelle,” Feuilly told her. “You can learn to fold with Enjolras.”

She looked a little startled to see Enjolras in the kitchen, but she was more polite about it than her siblings would have been. She just went to wash her hands and took a spot at his side. “What are we making?”

“It’s Polish night,” Feuilly explained. They’d had heritage nights a few times, people invited to make cherished family recipes for the group. Most people who weren’t on regular kitchen crew found it too exhausting to repeat, but Feuilly liked it. “Pierogi and sausages.”

“Yum,” she said noncommittally. 

He showed them how to fold the pierogi into the proper half-moon shape, and watched in satisfaction as their stacks of completed pierogi grew. Azelma chattered happily as she worked.

“Cooking is a lot like crafts. I never knew that before working with Musichetta. My mother didn’t teach us to cook. She said it was beneath our dignity.” Azelma laughed. “She was going to enroll me in dance lessons instead, but she never got around to it, or the money dried up, or something. Grantaire says he’ll teach me to tango, but I don’t know if he means it.”

Enjolras winced. It wasn’t something Azelma would notice, but Feuilly knew him too well. “I wouldn’t count on it,” he said.

She shrugged. “If I get desperate, I can ask Bahorel. I think he knows. Or, doesn’t Courfeyrac seem like he knows how to dance?”

Feuilly chuckled. “That’s a nice image, isn’t it?” Courfeyrac had a lot of enthusiasm, but he couldn’t match it in coordination. 

“It is!” Azelma beamed. He hoped she didn’t have a crush. Many nineteen-year-olds before her had been crushed by Courfeyrac’s charisma. 

He left them to the folding and opened the warm oven. The bowl he’d set in there had a towel over it, and he peeled it back to check. Yes, doubled in size. He removed the bowl with a satisfied grin.

“What’s that?” Enjolras asked. “I didn’t know you had anything in the oven.”

“Pączki,” he said. “Dessert.” He punched the dough down and set it on the counter to rise again. “I think I’ll make a custard for it. And use some of that berry jam we made this summer, remember, Zelle?”

“Making jam is the worst,” she agreed cheerfully. “It was so hot in here. But having it’s good!”

“I’d use lemon curd, or an orange zest glaze, if I could get my hands on citrus,” he confessed. “But I think they’ll be good with custard and jam, don’t you?”

“They’ll be good however you make them,” Enjolras said loyally.

Feuilly wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist, but he couldn’t help his fond smile. They didn’t often get to have quiet moments in small groups, which he knew made Enjolras more comfortable. He preferred it, too, like this: a few people he liked very well, if not loved, in a shared project. 

Such moments were rare, and so Feuilly knew how to stretch them out. He showed his friends how to boil pierogi, how to fry pączki.

He didn’t bring up the trip for supplies, and how Combeferre was going out again. That was worrying Enjolras, it had to be. They’d been lucky this year, with the runs, but it wasn’t safe on the outside. Enjolras always worried about sending a team out, and there was no one he cared about more than Combeferre. 

A few more of the usual kitchen staff filtered in and helped. By the time they had set the fry oil on the back burner to cool until the cleaning crew could decant it into jars for re-use, they were all sticky with melted sugar and a little wild from it. Dinner was on serving platters ready to go out; all that was left was for them to bring the food into the dining room.

“All right, everyone,” Feuilly clapped his hands together. “Come take your taste.”

It was traditional for the cooks of the meal to try the food before they took it out. It was a moment to be proud of their work, before everyone else came into it.

Azelma loves the first bite. She squealed and surged forward, as did the regular kitchen staff. Enjolras hung back.

Feuilly nudged him with his shoulder. “Don’t be shy.”

“I’m not shy.” A lie. But Feuilly didn’t mind.

“I’ll bring you one. What kind do you want?” 

Enjolras chewed his lip. “You pick.”

Feuilly chose potato, onion and cheese. One for Enjolras, one for himself. He thought about feeding it to Enjolras himself, but the idea turned funny in his head so instead he let Enjolras take it from his hand. 

“These are delicious,” Enjolras said. “Thank you for sharing them with us.”

If he asked now, Enjolras might say yes. “Hey, do you want a hug?”

Enjolras smiled. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

He wrapped his arms around Enjolras and gave him a squeeze. He wasn’t as good a hugger as Courfeyrac was, but Feuilly figured he was better than nothing. Enjolras seemed to think so, anyway.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said as he stepped back. “I had fun with you today.”

Feuilly felt himself blushing. “Well, you were a good assistant.”

Enjolras stepped forward at last and picked up a platter. Feuilly followed suit without a word. He was happy at the back.

Now they were ready for dinner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how has your apocalypse novel changed since this started? there's a lot more cooking as stress management technique in mine.
> 
> I have made pierogi before but this chapter is brought to you by mail-order pierogi, which are available in my timeline, and the existence of exacting recipe blogs, without which I could not have been this specific.
> 
> it's really kind of amazing that I use so many non-English words and my spell check still only picks up things I was actually wrong about. technology...


	6. réapprovisionner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were lucky, Musichetta thought dryly, to have lived in the European nation with the highest military funding. If they’d been Greek, they’d have been fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for violence, blood, guns. friends, things got a little out of hand in this one.

Given a full range of options, Musichetta would have chosen to slip out of bed without waking her boyfriends, and spare them all the solemn goodbye. They’d never stand for that, though, and had bracketed themselves on either side of her. Since she couldn’t get up without alerting them, she tapped her hand on Joly’s hip to wake him. 

He rolled off the mattress to let her up. She kissed his temple as she passed. He was already coaxing Bossuet awake as she retreated to the bathroom.

The morning was chilly, and she dressed with care to stay warm while remaining able to run and fight if needed. She’d slept with her hair in plaits, one done by each of her boyfriends. Neither of them was especially talented as a hairdresser, but Bossuet’s on the left side of her head was immeasurably worse than Joly’s on her right. She admired them a moment before working her hair free of them and twisting it into a knot low on the back of her head. It was too much hair, really; she’d thought of shaving it off as Éponine had done, but had been unable to imagine who she’d be without three feet of dark curls blanketing her back. It might not have been practical, but it was her kind of impractical. Besides, Joly would probably have cried.

He looked in danger of doing that anyway, as they gathered on the lawn for the sendoff. 

“You don’t have to come down,” Musichetta repeated.

Bossuet wrapped an arm around Joly’s shoulders. “Yeah, we do.”

Bahorel came alone, having said whatever goodbyes he cared to before the actual moment of departure. Enjolras had come with Combeferre, but he’d have been there anyway. Enjolras always came to see groups off.

The only real surprise came when Grantaire appeared as though out of nowhere. Which was the only way he ever went anywhere other than the barn, she guessed, but he hadn’t come around in weeks. Joly had asked her for food to take to Grantaire, so she knew he hadn’t been coming to meals. It was frowned upon to keep food for personal use instead of the communal meals, but Musichetta didn’t feel like fighting with her boyfriend about it. She knew full well Grantaire would starve himself if forced to choose between life-sustaining caloric intake and his depression cave.

So it was weird to see him, in the anemic light of approaching sunrise. Though, really, Musichetta should have expected it; where Enjolras was, Grantaire tended to turn up eventually. 

“You came,” Enjolras murmured.

“I didn’t do it for you.” Grantaire’s voice was unusually sharp. He kept his eyes trained on the ground as he approached the ATV, which had been loaded already with weapons and first aid kits and emergency provisions and reusable shopping bags. “Yo, B,” he called. “I came to remind you I owe you a beating.”

Bahorel laughed. “What, you think you can take me?”

“I know I can.” Grantaire’s grin was all bravado. “I don’t want you to forget.”

“Sure thing, small fry,” Bahorel said. “After music circle tomorrow. I’ll thrash you again.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.” It was some kind of martial art they did together; Musichetta didn’t care for the specifics, but she’d seen enough to know that Grantaire was probably going to lose again. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was they’d made a plan, so now Bahorel would have to come home safely to keep it. People got to be superstitious about stuff like that around here.

Bahorel climbed into the driver’s seat of the ATV; Combeferre let go of Enjolras’s hand and took the seat next to him. 

Musichetta disentangled herself from her boys. “I’ll see you later, okay?” 

Joly made an involuntary keening noise as he lost contact with her. She wished she hadn’t heard it.

“I love you,” Bossuet said.

She was too choked up to say it back, so she just blew him a kiss. 

Joly leaned against Bossuet as they watched her go. He was extra stiff today, from skipping his stretches or the cold weather or the sleepless night. She hoped he’d be feeling better when she came home. 

If she came home.

Enjolras stepped toward Grantaire, who flinched away and went to stand with her boys instead. That was their last image of the settlement, as they started the engine and drove off: three men in a huddle, and Enjolras by himself, all looking after them.

“We have to go toward Paris,” Combeferre said quietly, after the gates had closed behind them.

Most supply runs went the other direction, toward smaller towns. It was safer to keep away from what had once been highly populated areas. More dead there. But more opportunities, too, if they needed something specific.

None of them said anything as Bahorel turned left to take them toward Paris. They all knew what it meant to be headed to the city. 

Musichetta was glad Combeferre hadn’t mentioned Paris when Joly was still in earshot. She cast about for some subject change, but all she landed on was “Hey, that was weird, with Enjolras and Grantaire, right?”

From her spot behind Bahorel, she could see Combeferre’s face grow concerned. “There’s a lot of water under that bridge,” he said finally.

Bahorel snorted. “Yeah, toxic water with little dead fishies floating in it. They used to fuck, right?”

Combeferre’s frown deepened. “Who says that?”

“Uh, everyone says that,” Musichetta piped up.

“We have a real gossip problem,” Combeferre said.

“Well, there’s been no such thing as television all year,” she said. “We don’t have anything else to entertain ourselves with.”

Combeferre smiled wryly. “You could try watching for zombies on the perimeter.”

“Did they or didn’t they?” Bahorel asked.

Combeferre opened his mouth, closed it, and then, seeming to realize he wouldn’t get away with saying nothing, opened it again. “It’s a rumor, and a mean-spirited one. I’m sure it would be appreciated if you didn’t continue to spread it.”

It wasn’t a denial, exactly, but neither was it confirmation. Musichetta admired Combeferre’s diplomacy. 

They spotted their first dead about a kilometer out. It was a loner, and far enough from them that they could easily outrun it in the ATV with no need to waste ammunition on it. They each had a variety of handguns at their disposal, plus one automatic weapon in case they needed to blast their way out of a bad situation. No one had ever used the automatic on one of these excursions; they preferred being careful to having to fight. But they had it, all the same, from a raid Combeferre had led early on to the Hexagone Balard. Most of their guns had come from there. They were lucky, Musichetta thought dryly, to have lived in the European nation with the highest military funding. If they’d been Greek, they’d have been fucked.

She shoved a breakfast bar into her mouth. She wanted to be well-fueled for this.

There was a strategy to going toward Paris. They stopped the ATV well outside the city so as not to attract any dead with the sound of the engine. From there, they proceeded on foot until they came to something worth looting.

The first market they stopped in had clearly been fully stocked when it had been abandoned. The produce that hadn’t been taken by other urban explorers had rotted in its baskets, and a stench of rotten milk emanated from what had once been a refrigerated cabinet. Musichetta had a strong stomach, but a dead city was an assault on the senses.

As was the member of the dead stuck wandering the breakfast aisle. Musichetta took a crowbar to its head. She tried not to think of it as having once been a person.

“Hey, coffee,” Bahorel said.

“It’s not necessary,” Combeferre said.

Bahorel shook the bag of beans at him. “Doesn’t weigh much, though. Wouldn’t it make them happy? We can save it for New Year’s. A celebration.”

Combeferre sighed. “Up to you, M. You’re in charge of the kitchen.”

She shrugged. “If you want to carry it, knock yourself out. I’ll find ways to use it, and the grounds can be fertilizer after.”

There were a few dry goods left on the shelves, and they put what they found in their sacks. Like they always did, they left behind a note explaining how to find La Republique, in case any other survivors happened by. This they put on the shelf where canned goods had once resided-- a place someone desperate would be sure to check.

“We’ll have to get closer to the city if we want to look for a generator,” Bahorel said.

Combeferre looked up from the note. “Yeah. Different kinds of stores too. And we need to keep an eye out for pharmacies.”

They usually did, but something in his tone made Musichetta feel alert to danger. Combined with his insistence on going Paris-ward instead of country-ward, it signified something grave. It wasn’t just aspirin he was hoping to stock up on.

They went forward. A petrol station just outside the city had a few dregs of fuel left, which they dutifully squeezed into the can they carried with them, but was otherwise a bust; anything useful had been taken long ago. No batteries, no food, nothing. 

The more time passed, the more stores they found stripped like this, the farther they had to go to get the things they need. One day there wouldn’t be anything left, or at least not enough to justify the effort in going out to try to find it. Musichetta had nightmares about what the end of dried beans and what that would mean for feeding their family. 

“You still know where the ATV is, right?” she asked Combeferre. 

He nodded jerkily and pointed at an angle behind them. “Two kilometers. Ish.”

She knew her answering smile was thin, but it was the best she could do. There was this to say about Combeferre: his gossip might have been terrible, but he was a good man in a storm. Reliable. That was why so many people relied on him.

“Is that a camping supply store?” Bahorel murmured.

“Let’s hope no one else got there first.” She adjusted her belt, running her fingers over the handle of her crowbar. 

There were a few loitering dead in the alley, but they’d be easily dispatched. This long dead, they weren’t as fast as they used to be. 

At close range, Bahorel was the best fighter of them, so Musichetta and Combeferre acted as backup. He swung his weapon of choice-- a hatchet, which he also used around the settlement every now and then-- and got it between the eyes. Without missing a beat, he whirled and whacked a second. Combeferre took the third one from behind. No one liked to get any closer to the teeth than they had to.

It was clear someone or someones had gotten to the store first, but they’d left plenty behind. No jerky, but enough sleeping bags for them to each strap one to their backs to bring home. More fuel. Some meal replacement powder, which Musichetta grimly loaded into her bag. There were some nice fire pits, but they’d have been too much to carry. They had one nearly as good at the house, but it would have been nice to have more.

“We can make some, can’t we?” Combeferre asked. “If we get creative?”

Bahorel said “maybe” but Musichetta saw him planning it out already. His eyes had been shining with a manic energy since the fight. 

There was a gas generator, too. Smaller than the one they had now, but… “Maybe we could run refrigeration on it, at least.”

Combeferre frowned at it. “We’ll have to get it on our way back. We can’t have that in our hands while we forage.”

“We’ll drag it into the alley,” Musichetta said. “We can leave the sleeping bags there too, and only take empty bags with us so we can move easier. It’s not like we have to worry about theft at this point. We’ll swing back by to pick it up once we have… everything else.” She couldn’t be specific about what else they needed, since he hadn’t told her. She hoped to find more food, too, before they headed back to wait out the winter.

She poked her head out to confirm they weren’t about to be ambushed by waiting dead. They did that, sometimes. If they heard someone on the other side of a door they lacked the dexterity to open, they’d stay put in case a meal delivered itself to them. One waiting dead often attracted others. There weren’t any this time. For city-adjacent territory, they hadn’t encountered much of the former population.

It made Musichetta nervous. Where were they? Two million people used to live in Paris. That number was now zero, or close to it. Musichetta hadn’t finished her doctorate in mathematics, but she could do the math on how many dead should be here.

They dragged the generator into the alley and left their stash of other supplies there for later before continuing on.

“Supermarket,” Combeferre said.

Big markets were a gamble. On the one hand, they’d used to carry large amounts of stock. On the other, the desperate living had tended to think of the big stores first.

The automatic doors had been prized open and left that way, but after they entered they eased the doors closed behind them. No need to make it easier for any wandering dead to sneak up on them. This way, any that weren’t already in the store would have trouble getting in.

“What department should we check first?” Musichetta asked. “Pharmacy, home goods?” Teams didn’t split up. That was the point of the team.

Combeferre bit his lip. “Let’s check for food first. Work our way toward the back.”

There was flour here, at least. Most of it was wheat alternatives, chickpea and almond and flaxseed-- she wondered if this had been a specialty store or if most of the stock had simply gone already. It didn’t matter. She’d take the lot over having to turn entirely to their homemade stuff. Salt wasn’t too hard to come by, and they evaporated rainwater for it when they had to, but it was vital, and she was pleased to be able to stick a large box of it into her bag. Bouillon, too-- bless the shelf-stable stuff.

Housewares was worse off-- there was soap, still, so they took that, but anything resembling a weapon had disappeared, including the legs off a table that used to display novelty candles. She grabbed some of the candles, though. “We might want these once we shut the lights off.” They’d left a few lanterns back in the alley, but they could carry more.

Combeferre nodded and shoved a couple into his pack as well. 

Then: the pharmacy. Bahorel set to work sweeping whole shelves of medication into his bag without looking at them. Combeferre ran to the counter and climbed over it; the door between the public area and the pharmacist’s office seemed to have held up until now.

Musichetta followed him over the counter and started grabbing unclaimed prescriptions. Once she got them home, Joly could look them over and see what was useful. She only looked up when she heard glass breaking. “Oh!”

“Sorry, I don’t know where the key is,” Combeferre said, rooting through the cabinet under the desk. “Here, we can take some of this-- be careful, there’s glass.” He moved on to the locked mini fridge, banging on the padlock to try to break it open.

“Combeferre?” Bahorel’s voice rose.

“In a minute,” Combeferre said, continuing to hit the lock. “Please please please,” he whispered. “Please do this.”

“Don’t have a minute,” Bahorel called. “Incoming.”

Musichetta pulled her hand out of the cabinet, feeling a harsh scrape as she did but not sparing half a second to look down. Instead, she leapt across to Bahorel’s side, crowbar in hand.

“Where did they come from?” she hissed.

“Dunno, maybe there’s another door or something.” There were fifteen of them, maybe; not a horde, but more than enough to overwhelm three people. “Fuck, we’re gonna need a gun.”

Musichetta was already unholstering one. “Left corner pocket,” she muttered, more to herself than because it was a good joke.

Bahorel started shooting.

She took down one with a shot through the eye; Bahorel nailed two in a row. A shot from behind the counter to their left took one out at the edge of the cluster. The ones at the back of the crowd were slowed by tripping over the fallen. The dead weren’t problem solvers; they’d beaten humanity through surprise and persistence, not smarts.

Her handgun only held twelve bullets, but she didn’t want to use them all and have to exchange guns mid-battle, so after she’d fired six of them she switched to her crowbar, defending Bahorel against any that got close enough to hit. When there were only a few twitching corpses on the ground, Bahorel took his knife out to finish the job.

Combeferre lowered his gun. “Fuck,” he panted.

“Fuck,” she agreed.

“Any get you?”

Musichetta shook her head.

“You sure? You’re bleeding.”

She followed his gaze to her right arm, which was, indeed, bleeding; she’d given herself a nasty gash. “I cut myself on the glass. I know you told me not to. Did you get into the fridge?”

“No. But I guess I can shoot it off. Damage done.” He frowned and fired the gun in his hands, then bent and scooped something into his bag. “Probably not worth it. Power’s been out longer than thirty days, I bet.” He tugged at his hair. “Fuck,” he said again. “You’re going to need stitches. Do you think you can make it back to the ATV?”

“Do  _ you _ think I can make it back to the ATV?” she asked.

He exhaled. “I think you can. I think we have to. Some of them will have heard that, and we’ll be sitting ducks if we don’t use our speed advantage and get out. I’ll take my expired fucking insulin and we’ll retreat. Fuck. What a clusterfuck.”

Musichetta had never known Combeferre to do more than very occasional swearing. 

The three of them took off at a brisk pace toward the exit, Musichetta trailing drops of blood behind them.

“What about the alley?” 

“ _ Fuck _ the alley,” he snarled. “We have to get out of here, we have to get you home.”

“No,” she said. “I’m not going back with nothing. We stop and pick it up.”

“ _ Fine _ ,” Combeferre said. “But Bahorel’s going to have to carry most of it, you’re injured and I’m the best shot.”

“Deal,” Bahorel said.

They could see the gathering masses of dead once they were out of the supermarket. Far enough away not to have to fight. Yet. The dead weren’t as fast as living people were, but they didn’t get tired, either. They were going to need every inch of that head start if they wanted to make it away.

They ran.

Zig-zagging around blocks and putting obstacles between themselves and the pursuing dead was a time-honored tradition, and they did it as much as they could. Another dead surprised them behind a tall building they’d swung around, but Bahorel took care of it almost without slowing down. 

Their alley stash was exactly as they’d left it, of course. They each took a sleeping bag, Musichetta taking care to keep from getting any blood on hers, and shouldered a few bags. Bahorel took the generator in hand by himself. It was at least seventy pounds, but he was strong.

Walking was harder so loaded down. Musichetta wasn’t bleeding too badly, she didn’t think, but it couldn’t be helping matters either. The sun was high by now, and there was sweat tickling the back of her neck.

“Just one more kilometer,” Combeferre said, his voice like a prayer. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

One more kilometer. She could do one more. She’d done track competitions as a teenager. After this, she could sit down. Put her burdens in the ATV. Drink some water. Get a bandage on her stupid arm. 

In the end, she didn’t carry her bags that far. As soon as the vehicle came into view, she dropped them, at Combeferre’s insistence, so he could get her in the backseat where the first aid kit was. Bahorel loaded everything without complaint and climbed into the driver’s seat once more. This time he needed no direction. They were going home.

Once the engine was running, Combeferre could abandon lookout duty and devote himself entirely to Musichetta’s cut. He wrapped gauze around her forearm and pressed down. He said nothing. There was a little crease between his eyebrows.

“Well, am I gonna live?” she cracked.

He glanced up. “Yeah, I think so, but it’ll probably scar.” He adjusted his glasses, leaving a smear of blood on his cheek. Her blood.

For the first time, she felt a little woozy. “Joly’s going to have a conniption.” She closed her eyes.

Combeferre chuckled darkly. “Yeah, probably.”

A small crowd had gathered at the gate. Both sides of it.

“Look, we’ve got a welcoming committee,” Bahorel said, picking up a gun.

The perimeter was often quiet, but the dead could be counted on to congregate where they’d heard the ATV’s engine rumble. Not too many here, since they’d left hours ago, but more were sure to show up now that they’d returned. The night shift guarding the gate would be eventful tonight.

Musichetta didn’t care about that now. She just wanted to shower the stink off her, eat a meal someone else prepared, and sleep for a day and a half.

The guards took the lead in dispersing the dead, though Bahorel and Combeferre each helped. Musichetta was too tired to do anything but watch. 

Along with Monsieur Madeleine, Enjolras was on guard this afternoon, though it probably hadn’t been his shift. He liked to watch for supply returns. Musichetta figured he didn’t feel right until everyone was back in the fold. Fair enough, really.

The gate slammed closed behind them.

As soon as the ATV slowed to a stop, Combeferre leapt out to join the people who had arrived to help unload their bounty. 

“Are you hurt?” Enjolras asked, grasping his arm. “You’ve got blood--”

“Oh, it’s not mine--” Combeferre began, but stopped as they all noticed Joly bolting toward them at top speed. His top speed, which was most people’s medium speed. Someone must have told him of their approach.

Arrivals were so hectic.

“I’m fine.” 

Musichetta tried to assure Joly before he even started talking, but he was already babbling “oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god” over and over.

“Really, it’s okay. I cut myself on some broken glass. It was stupid, but it’s fine.” She climbed down from the ATV and took his face in her hands, though the cut on her arm throbbed with the effort. “Combeferre said so.”

Joly wrapped his arms around her and pressed his face to her chest.

She stroked his hair with her good arm. “It’s okay.”

When he pulled back, she could see he’d been crying. “Okay. Okay. We’re going to take you to the infirmary so I can look at it and clean it.”

“It’ll need stitches too,” Combeferre said, his voice neutral.

Joly inhaled slowly. “Let’s go.”

“Enjolras, will you come too?” Musichetta asked. Her exam would have a witness. Joly couldn’t be trusted to be impartial. 

People did lie about getting bitten by the dead, of course they did. But up close it was easy to tell the difference between a normal wound and a dead bite. Live wounds, sooner or later, they stopped bleeding, started to scab over. Bites from the dead, they didn’t heal. It took weeks for an infected person to die themselves, but as long as you got a look at the site of the infection, you’d know it anyway. By now, anyone would be able to tell by looking at Musichetta’s arm that her blood was clear.

Joly visibly relaxed when her bandage was off. The wound had started to bleed again when the gauze had come off it, but the edges clearly showed signs of having sealed during the trip home.

Enjolras peered at her arm stretched out on the table. “Is it clean?”

“Probably not,” Joly said, applying antiseptic to the cut. Musichetta tried not to flinch at the sting. “All kinds of bacteria out there. We’ll set you up with some antibiotics, dear.” He patted her hand.

“No, I mean--”

“I know what you meant, Enjolras. See this part here, where there’s a scab? She’s healing, not dying.” He smiled. “You’re healing, sweetheart.”

Musichetta had known she’d pass, but even so she felt a relief she couldn’t explain. “Can we go home, then?”

Joly shook his head, looking sympathetic. “Afraid not, darling. Combeferre was right, we’ll need to stitch this up. I’m going to do them perfect for you, so you won't get a scar.”

“I don’t care about a scar, Joly.”

The door flung open and Bossuet skidded into the infirmary. “I go to the bathroom for five minutes and when I get back Chetta’s home and you’re in the infirmary? What the hell?”

She held her good arm out to him. “I’m okay, baby, Dr. Joly said so. You can hold my hand while he stitches me up.”

He took her hand but averted his gaze from her bloody arm. “This isn’t sexy for me, just so you know.”

Enjolras coughed. “I’ll take that as my cue to leave. There are plenty of supplies to allocate.” He moved toward the door, then stopped and turned back to face them. “It’s good to have you home. Thank you for your service.” He left without waiting for a reply and closed the door behind him.

Joly was halfway through stitching her wound when a horrible thought occurred to her. “Joly, can I get stitches wet?” 

“Not for the first forty-eight hours,” he said, eyes trained on his even row of stitching. “Why?”

“I want a shower,” she groaned. “So, so badly.”

He paused in his work and looked up. “Hey. We’ll give you a bath. Get you all clean and you won’t have to do anything.”

Everyone made do with the utilitarian showers normally, the claw-footed tubs having gone to the barricade, but there was one built-in tub in Cosette’s suite. She’d let them up to use it once or twice, when Joly’s hip had been hurting him. She’d even helped them heat water for it. Musichetta didn’t know to whom else she’d offered such kindnesses, but she assumed they weren’t the only ones.

Bossuet kissed her forehead. “I’m incredibly glad you’re home.”

A tear leaked from under her lashes.

When Joly pronounced her arm finished, he grabbed a bottle of pills from his closet and brought them to her. “These are for infection. Twice a day with food. We’ll start tonight.” He put them in his pocket.

Bossuet squeezed her hand one last time and got up. “I’m going to go arrange a bath and private dinner,” he said. “Then we’ll all lie down, yeah?”

She nodded.

Joly was the one who guided her up the stairs to Cosette’s room. Cosette was absent, having apparently given permission and vacated to give them privacy. Bossuet arrived a few minutes later, as Joly was undressing her, with her towel, clean clothes, some food, and one of the candles she’d picked up from the store. “Ambience in the en suite,” he said cheekily.

“Do not play with fire,” she said. “If you want a candle lit, let me do it.”

She placed it on the counter and lit the match herself. The bathroom didn’t get good light in the evenings with its east-facing window, so they could justify needing the light.

They hadn’t been able to heat enough water to fill the tub, so it was half-full and tepid, but she didn’t care. It was still the best thing she’d ever felt when Joly’s strong, capable hands massaged shampoo into her hair and Bossuet rubbed her feet at the other end of the tub.

After the bath, they all sat on the floor in the candlelight and ate the picnic Bossuet had brought. Sick and injured people had allowances for skipping family dinner, and she was glad to have this time just with them. Even if he had brought a strange assortment of crudités and after dinner biscuits. 

Hunger abated for now, she dressed in her pajamas and led them downstairs. They were the first in their bedroom that night, a rare advantage she had no intention of letting pass. A little sex went a long way to reminding someone they were still alive.

As she lay sandwiched between them, Musichetta sighed with satisfaction. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she murmured. To her boys. To whatever god had seen her protected. To the day itself, for finally ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I an action girl? No, I didn't shave my head during quarantine and I don't know how fights work. What I am is a research girl, who has googled so many facts about French economy and governance AS THOUGH THEY MATTER since this is the apocalypse. Sigh.


	7. tête-à-tête

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Room service,” Éponine called as she climbed the ladder to the hayloft.
> 
> “No.” Grantaire’s voice was flat and, when she pulled herself into the loft, so was he: lying on his back in the new thermal sleeping bag Bahorel had brought back from the last supply run.

“Room service,” Éponine called as she climbed the ladder to the hayloft.

“No.” Grantaire’s voice was flat and, when she pulled herself into the loft, so was he: lying on his back in the new thermal sleeping bag Bahorel had brought back from the last supply run.

Éponine bit back a frown. It was a good thing for him to be warm and comfortable. She knew that. It was just that she’d kind of hoped that the oncoming cold of winter might drive him back inside. “That’s not very nice, you little shit. I brought you presents.”

His eyes closed. “Give them to someone else. Give them to your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Yeah, what is she, then?” He propped himself up on one elbow.

Éponine rolled her eyes. “She’s a girl I hook up with sometimes, I don’t know. It’s not that deep.”

“What, you’re not in love with her?” 

She couldn’t tell if he was sincere or just messing with her, but she knew what he’d say if she asked. “I’m not you. I don’t have to fall in love with somebody just because they’re hot.”

He sighed and flopped back onto the floor. “Ah, my ministering angel dispenses bon mots at my expense. Are you done now?”

“We’ll see where the mood takes us.” If he wouldn’t get up, she’d come to him. She dropped her backpack and laid down beside him. “You know, if you came to dinner, you wouldn’t have to endure these little visits.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening. You’re lucky I’m even dressed.”

She snorted. “It’s too cold not to be dressed.” When she reached for his hand, he let her take it. “You know there’s room for you in the pool house if you want it.”

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice.” He turned on his side to face her and brought his other hand up to rub her head. Not many people were allowed to enjoy the feel of her soft buzz cut. He was one of them. “It’s too crowded in there for you and the kids as is. But thanks for the offer. It means a lot.”

“Well, I can’t make you.” She wished she could.

“Smart woman,” Grantaire said. “Knows how to pick her battles.” His hand came away from her head.

The truth was, she missed her friend. The real him, the one who was interested in the world and told funny stories and knew where to get the best food-truck dinner in the city, the one who was charming and fun to be around. She hoped he was still in there. She caught glimpses of him every now and then. But if he never came back, if all she got to have was this sad, diminished version beside her… 

Well, she’d keep him, obviously. And know she was luckier than most to still have even his ghost.

“Don’t you want to see what I brought you?” she asked.

“If you must.” He released her hand.

Éponine sat up and pulled her backpack over. She unzipped it carefully, mindful that zippers didn’t last forever. “Provisions, since you insist on camping out here.” She unloaded the food. She’d focused on nonperishables, since who knew how long he’d neglect to eat it, but included some fresh fruit, for nutrition’s sake. As long as they had apples, he might as well eat some. “A few sweaters from the communal closet, nothing major.” Soft things. A hole here or there, but he wouldn’t care about that. “But, okay, this last one I’m proud of, so you’d better be appreciative.” She reached back into her bag and pulled out a brand new pair of hiking boots. “Ta-da!”

He frowned. “That’s too much.”

Shoes were hard to come by. Clothes they could alter to fit, or make from scratch if they had fabric. Shoes weren’t shareable in the same way. None of them knew how to make shoes, and there weren’t any clues to the construction of most factory-produced footwear. Their old shoes didn’t hold up to constant wear, and shoe repair was of minimal use. Feuilly had experimented last winter with carving wooden shoes, which had been beautiful, but nearly impossible to walk in. Instead, they tried to find new shoes on every trip past the boundary.

With three growing boys, Éponine had stress dreams about shoes. But Combeferre had brought a whole sack full of shoes from whatever outdoor supply store they’d looted last, and now everyone had a pair that fit, at least for now.

But Grantaire was shaking his head. “I can’t take these, someone else can probably use them.”

“Your old ones have holes,” she said. “You can’t go around like that. Just say thank you and take the damn shoes.”

“Thanks, I guess.” He took them in his hands and stared at them.

“Eh, good enough.” Éponine tucked herself back against his side. “Gav has been bugging me for another magic lesson, so I hope there’s another trick you can show him.”

Grantaire hummed. “I know upwards of four entire tricks, so the kid’s in luck. Send him by anytime.”

“You sure? I’ve been telling him not to bother you out here.”

“Why? It’s not like I’m doing something important.”

“I just don’t want the kids harassing you if you’re not up to it.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I like kids.” He tugged a ball of tissue paper out from the inside of one of the boots and tossed it in the air, caught it, and threw it again. “They’re better than adults.”

Éponine snatched the tissue paper out of the air. “Don’t let Gav catch you saying that, or you’ll be next on the list of people he’s trying to convince he’s an adult now.” She lobbed the tissue paper so it gently bopped him on the forehead.

“You’d think they wouldn’t be as desperate to grow up as we were,” Grantaire said. “Who’s he trying to convince?”

“Me, mostly. Enjolras too. He wants onto the perimeter.”

Grantaire sat up. “You’re not going to let him, are you?”

“Of course not!” She levered up onto her elbows. “What kind of sister do you think I am?”

“The kind I wish I’d had at his age,” he said. “Maybe I’d have turned out better.”

Placated, she laid back down and reached one hand to stroke his lower back. “I think you turned out alright.”

“Mm, results pending.”

She snorted. “Honestly, the results are still pending about Gavroche too. I’m not exactly nailing it as a parent.”

“I think you’re doing pretty good, considering.” He nudged her. “Then again, what do I know?”

“About as much as I do.” Her parents hadn’t exactly prepared her to take over for them. They hadn’t prepared her for much of anything other than a life of petty crime.

She was glad they were dead. Who knew what would have happened to her siblings otherwise. 

“Maybe you can ask your girlfriend for tips,” Grantaire said. “She seems like she’s taken some babysitting classes. Or, ooh, better, you can ask her dad how he raised such a well-adjusted person.”

“Shut up,” she laughed. “God, can you imagine? ‘Excuse me, sir, I’ve been impressed by your daughter since we’ve been fucking, could you tell me how you did that?’ Forget it. Anyway, I think she was just born with a good temperament, unlike Gavroche.”

“And me.”

“And me,” she added.

He leaned back into a reclining position beside her, hands tucked behind his head. “How are things back at the house?”

“No,” Éponine said. “I’m not doing that.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Come on, tell me something.”

“Why? So you can brood on it and torment yourself? Pass.”

“It was just a question, Nina.”

She nuzzled his cheek. “No, it wasn’t. If you’re that bored or desperate, you can come find out yourself. Gossip is part of the cost of self-isolation.”

“But I love gossip,” he whined.

“Too bad!” She giggled. “Anyway, you know those nerds are boring as hell. Unless you want to hear some deeply uninteresting facts about beet cultivation, there’s nothing to tell.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Sadly, you have to take my word for it. Unless, and you know what I’m going to say here…”

Grantaire waved a hand in the air. “Yeah, yeah. But you know you’re lacking credibility on the gossip status, as someone in a secret relationship.”

“Okay, for like the fifteenth time, it’s not a relationship.”

“If you say so. She’s awfully hot, though.”

Éponine sighed. “She really is.”

“Wouldn’t have pegged her for your type.”

“My type has a pulse,” she said. “Which I’ve got to say is more limiting than it used to be.”

He lifted a fist for her to bump. “Truth.”

She bumped it. 

“Hey, what do you think is the most irritating anyone here has? Is it Bahorel’s ukulele? I’m thinking of stealing it and learning to play.”

She pondered. “Better stay out here with it or someone will reinvent murder. You’re an easier target than he is.”

“I don’t know, human life is more sacred than it used to be.” Grantaire paused. “Even mine.”

Éponine got up and brushed hay off her clothes. “Okay, that’s enough idling for today. There are appliances to tinker with.” She bent and kissed his forehead. “See you sometime, I guess.”

“You know where to find me.”

She did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> where do people on all those zombie shows keep getting professionally-made shoes, is what I want to know.


	8. conseils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing else that had happened the last two years had killed Combeferre. He didn’t see why a little alone time as he ate his oatmeal would be the thing to finish him off. He liked to be by himself sometimes. Not enough to sequester himself in a barn or garage office, but enough to fantasize every now and then of showering without a time limit. Solitude was in short supply these days. It was far from the only thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW there are guns in this but they don't go off. also there is a description of a panic attack

_Crunch_.

Combeferre blinked awake and reached to the floor next to his mattress, where he left his glasses when he slept. Instead of closing around familiar glass and metal, though, his fingers made contact with a shoe.

“I’m so sorry,” Bossuet said. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry--”

Combeferre sighed. “It’s okay, I know. Let me see.”

It was dark at this hour, at this time of year, and his uncorrected vision was blurry generally, but as soon as Bossuet had moved his foot, it was clear the glasses were unfixable. He’d hoped they might be merely bent, and he could try to have them straightened. Even a broken arm might have been an easy enough fix, but a cracked lens was beyond the mending capabilities of the commune.

“--I only had my shoes because my feet were cold,” Bossuet babbled. “I shouldn’t have had them on, maybe it would’ve been okay--”

“Or maybe you’d have gotten tetanus,” Combeferre said. It didn’t interrupt Bossuet’s hysterics.

“--it’s all my fault, I didn’t see--”

“Shh,” Musichetta shushed him, which did the trick.

Unusual. Musichetta was usually long gone from the bedrooms by now. “It’s really okay,” Combeferre told them both. “I have a spare.”

Never throw out something that would be useful in an emergency, Maman had always said. Mère had teased her for being a prepper, and he and Éloïse had rolled their eyes at the pair of them. 

He was glad he’d listened to Maman. The spare glasses had been one of the first things he’d put in his go bag, in the weeks before it had become necessary to flee the city. He kept them in his cubby, along with other personal effects that hadn’t been put to better use in the communal stores: his own allotment of clothes, a picture of his family, the frame holding the Japanese silk moth that had been the star of his insect collection, back when he’d had one. The sentimental attachment that had privileged the moth over an additional pair of underwear was a distant memory now, but he supposed a thing of beauty always had some comfort to offer. Even he was not a purely practical being.

He set his broken glasses in the cubby and slipped the spares out. After a moment of thought, he took the case they’d been in and set it on his mattress. He only had the one spare; he couldn’t afford to be so careless a second time.

Hardly anyone else was down for breakfast yet. Combeferre didn’t mind. Nothing else that had happened the last two years had killed him. He didn’t see why a little alone time as he ate his oatmeal would be the thing to finish him off. He liked to be by himself sometimes. Not enough to sequester himself in a barn or garage office, but enough to fantasize every now and then of showering without a time limit. Solitude was in short supply these days. It was far from the only thing.

Bossuet seemed really upset about breaking his glasses. Now that the moment had passed and everyone was calmer, Combeferre felt worse for not making sure he was all right. He wanted to do more to reassure him, but his presence might exacerbate rather than quell panic at this stage. Maybe he could send someone else. Someone more calming.

After he deposited his bowl in the dish bin, Combeferre headed back to the kitchen. The staff was still bustling around with food for the later risers. The air smelled strongly of cooking eggs. “Gervais, is Musichetta here?”

The boy shrugged. “She stepped out to get some air. She’s probably out back, if you want to find her.”

“It’s not that important.” Making a woman responsible for the feelings of her partner probably wasn’t very feminist of him. Now that he had a chance to rethink it, perhaps he wouldn’t ask her to check in.

He took a scarf and gloves from the outerwear closet before heading out. Over hours, a slight chill could feel much worse.

Combeferre had perimeter duty for the morning shift. Monsieur Madeleine was already in the arsenal when he arrived, with the key. Not everyone liked to work with him, but Combeferre found him pleasant enough company. Better him than Javert; at least Madeleine was a _reformed_ capitalist.

“Before we take over for Feuilly and Éponine, I’d like a favor,” Combeferre murmured. If he was going to handle guns, he’d need to pass his shooting assessment again. These glasses were several years older than the ones he was used to. His prescription hadn’t changed much since his early twenties, but a little went a long way when bullets were involved.

“Of course,” Madeleine said without hesitation. 

They made quick work of it. Madeleine ensured the field was clear of obstacles and inspected the targets. Combeferre took a wide, sturdy stance and fired three shots. 

He passed. Not as neatly as he’d done on the first go-round, but well enough to be trusted not to waste bullets or, worse, hurt someone living.

Combeferre locked the door to the shed that housed the arsenal behind them. The key was on a long chain, which he put around his neck. Better not to have to trust a pocket. 

He slipped the chain over his head again as they approached the gate. Feuilly and Éponine were waiting for shift trade, stamping their feet to stay warm.

“Who’s on after?” Éponine asked.

“Bahorel and Courfeyrac,” Combeferre said, handing her the key. 

She and Feuilly would lock up their guns and pass the key on to the next shift at breakfast before turning in. Anyone who took the midnight to six shift on guard duty was exempt from daytime work to catch up on sleep.

Feuilly unclipped the walkie talkie from his belt and held it out. “Might want to check the batteries. See you later.” He suppressed a yawn as he walked off.

It was hard to stay up all night on patrol. They tried to staff the midnight to six shift with volunteers, but sometimes people had to be assigned. Combeferre never took that shift. He was too needed as a doctor during the day.

The morning inspection was uneventful. The barricade had not taken any structural damage in the night. It wasn’t uncommon for weather or persistent dead to wear down defenses. Each incoming guard team walked the perimeter looking for trouble spots. There was no need to radio for emergency repair today.

The day wasn’t much warmer by the time Courfeyrac and Bahorel loped up to meet them at the gate. 

Bahorel slipped the key over his head and thrust it at Combeferre. “You’re free, man.”

“Is it Enjolras later? And…” He trailed off, not remembering who’d taken evening watch.

“Jehan,” Courfeyrac said. His mouth was full of the sandwich in his hands.

“I’ll get them the key,” Combeferre told Madeleine. “Oh, but Feuilly said the talkie might need a battery soon, so…”

“On it,” Bahorel said, patting his pocket. “Éponine told me at breakfast.”

“I wish you an uneventful watch,” Madeleine said, smiling gently at their replacements.

They both headed to the arsenal. Guns were always taken down and locked up in pairs, as a safety precaution. Combeferre unlocked the door and they unloaded and stored their weapons.

Madeleine preceded him out the door of the shed. “Oh, hello.”

When Combeferre got to the doorway, he saw Gavroche standing nearby. An ambush; he’d probably been waiting for them. 

“Shouldn’t you be in lessons?” Madeleine asked.

Gavroche glared. “I’m not a little kid.”

Monsieur Madeleine did not react. Combeferre felt sorry for him. He wasn’t used to anyone, but especially children, disliking him. 

“We’re headed in to lunch, Gavroche,” Combeferre said carefully. “Would you like to come?”

“I’d _like_ a gun.”

Combeferre sighed. “We’ve been over this.”

Gavroche crossed his arms.

“I’m going to head to the house,” Madeleine said. Probably wise. There was a better chance of de-escalation without a former mayor involved.

“I don’t understand why nobody will let me. What’s the point of reading or algebra or-- or _geography_ , like there’s even anything still out there!”

“We don’t know there’s nothing out there,” Combeferre said, though he had his suspicions, like everyone else.

“Yeah? When was the last time you saw an airplane?” Gavroche sneered. “We’re the only ones left, and I can’t sit in lessons when everyone’s in danger all the time. If I had a gun I could protect them.”

Post-traumatic stress, most likely. But who didn’t have that? The bigger problem was he was right. “No one keeps guns outside the shed, Gavroche,” Combeferre told him. “You already won about lessons. No one tries to make you do schoolwork.”

He shuffled his feet. “Ponine does.”

As older sister’s prerogative. “And how do you think Éponine would feel about us giving you a gun?”

“She has one! When she’s on patrol, anyway.” 

“I know you’re not a child,” Combeferre said. “That’s why we’ve given you vocational tasks. But your brothers look up to you, and they need you. You’ve got an important role to play, and right now that doesn’t include defending the border.”

“It could.”

He shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, but it can’t. In a few years, we can start training you for that, but for now it’s no. I know that’s hard to hear, but--”

“But my sister told you no,” Gavroche growled.

“Éponine is your guardian.” Combeferre tried to sound gentle and sympathetic. “She gets to have that power. It’s not forever, but it is final.”

Gavroche rolled his eyes. “You’re all cowards.”

“Be that as it may,” Combeferre said.

Gavroche stomped off.

Combeferre locked the shed behind him and started across the lawn toward the house. He hadn’t made it past the garage, though, when he heard a noise. Gasping, coming from the rear of the building. 

His heart stuttered in his chest. His hand went to his pocket, where he kept a small folding blade. He flattened himself against the wall of the garage and eased toward the corner.

The sounds grew louder as he approached. Not an animal, he thought. A person in distress.

Cautiously, he rounded the corner.

Grantaire was on the ground behind the garage, knees pulled to chest. He was rocking back and forth and breathing heavily.

No one else was in sight.

Combeferre’s hand left his knife. “Grantaire? Are you hurt?”

Grantaire shook his head, almost violently. “I’m okay,” he panted, then kept repeating it in time to his rocking: “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.”

Combeferre knelt beside him. “Okay,” he agreed. “You’re okay.”

Grantaire continued to gasp for breath. 

He would have been willing to offer a hug or a holding hand. Combeferre didn’t know if that kind of reassuring physical contact would be welcome. He didn’t want to make things worse. He crouched in front of Grantaire and angled for eye contact. “Breathe with me.”

The trick was not to start too slow. He aimed his loud, steady inhale for just a little slower than Grantaire’s at first, so Grantaire could match him. With each exhale, he gradually lengthened the breath, until he’d stopped hyperventilating.

Once Grantaire seemed to be in control of his breathing, Combeferre rocked back to sit beside him in the dirt. His knees and ankles had started to protest.

Grantaire leaned against the wall of the garage. “I’m okay,” he sighed one last time.

“Are you, really?” Combeferre asked.

Grantaire’s laugh sounded shaky. “Obviously not.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Again, the shaky laugh. “Not with you. Sorry.” 

“Nothing to apologize for,” Combeferre reassured him. “I didn’t know you had panic attacks.”

“I didn’t used to. Parting gift from the world that was, I guess.” He swiped at his face. His skin was shiny with sweat, but there might have been tears too.

Was there a point in making the offer? Yes, he decided. There was always a point in offering assistance. “There are medications that might help. If you wanted to try, we have plenty.”

“You really think Joly hasn’t tried that line?” Grantaire closed his eyes. “Look, I respect what you’re trying to do, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’ve been on SSRIs before. I know how hard it is to stop taking them. You’ve got enough now, but what happens in a year or two when you run out? There won’t be any more to get and I’ll have to come off them. That won’t be better than this. So, thanks, but no thanks.” He opened his eyes again. “That’s a new look.”

Combeferre was confused until Grantaire gestured at his face. He mimicked the motion, absently, until his fingers collided with the lucite frames resting on his nose. “Oh. My others met an unfortunate fate this morning. These are my spares, from a few years ago.”

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for green glasses. Very daring.”

“Well, I was twenty-three. I wouldn’t do it again.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds.

“How’re you doing?” Combeferre asked.

Grantaire shrugged. “Better. I guess.”

“I was heading up to get lunch. Do you want to come?”

Grantaire took a shuddering breath. “Uh, no. I think I’ve had enough adventure for one day. Time to abort mission.”

Combeferre frowned. Avoidance wasn’t healthy, was it? “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Grantaire ran his fingers through his hair. “I can’t be seen like this.”

 _Are you more afraid of seeing him_ , Combeferre wondered, _or of not seeing him?_ He kept that thought to himself. “All right,” he said instead. He got to his feet and offered Grantaire a hand.

Grantaire used it to lever himself to standing. His hand in Combeferre’s was clammy. “Thanks.”

Back to the barn he went. Combeferre watched for a moment, then caught himself-- it was creepy, wasn’t it?-- and turned to take himself into the house. He shucked his gloved back into the closet and took a trip to the nearest bathroom to wash his hands before continuing to the dining room.

Lunch was laid out on the table. As usual, there wasn’t a crowd; breakfast and lunch were both drawn-out affairs that happened in several shifts. The two people Combeferre needed to find weren’t here. He knew where to find one of them, though.

Working on a hunch, he grabbed enough food for two before he headed to the office.

“Hey,” Enjolras looked up with a smile when Combeferre entered. “This is a nice surprise.”

Combeferre set lunch on the desk before removing the key to the arsenal from his neck. “I had to bring you the key, and I figured you probably hadn’t eaten.”

Still smiling, Enjolras took the key. His hair was loose today, and he had to lift it to settle the key around his neck. “All right. I was going to head down in a minute, but you’ve saved me a trip.”

Combeferre dropped into the chair opposite him.

“Long day?” Enjolras asked, popping open a jar of preserved pears.

“So long it’s hard to believe it’s only midday.” Combeferre laid the slices of bread he’d brought so they were facing up.

“At this time of year, we’re probably a little past midday, if that’s any comfort.” Enjolras scooped some pears onto a slice of bread and nudged it toward Combeferre. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nothing interesting, I’m afraid,” Combeferre lied. “Just a lot to live through. Uneventful watch, though. We spotted a few but none came close enough to need shooting.” They tried to preserve shots when they could. The sound drew unnecessary attention, and it was a waste of bullets.

Enjolras sat down with his own bread and pears. “Thank you for lunch.”

“Thank the kitchen staff.” The pears were spiced and had a nice, wintery flavor. More of them would probably turn up in a cake sooner or later.

“No, I mean, I’m glad you came. I’ll miss seeing everyone at dinner, but this is nice.” Night watch missed family dinner by necessity. Someone had to. Tonight Enjolras was one of the two. Combeferre knew it made him sad. It had been Enjolras, in his typically community-minded fashion, who had proposed communal meals. “It seems like all anyone ever talks to me about is work.”

Combeferre’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure we’re not talking about work now, to be honest.”

“You brought food. That makes it a social call.”

He chuckled.

“Have you--” Enjolras hesitated. “No, I’m sorry, that’s disingenuous. I saw, out the window. Grantaire was here. Did you see him?”

The window on this side of the garage wouldn’t have a view of where they’d sat together. Combeferre could say nothing. His commitment to patient privacy sat in conflict with his interest in his friend. “I saw him, yes.”

Enjolras leaned across the desk. “Is he okay?”

“I think so,” Combeferre said. “I just saw him for a minute.”

“Oh.”

“You could talk to him, you know. He’s not far.”

Enjolras shook his head slightly before turning to look out the window through which he must have seen Grantaire walking away. “I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself.” Combeferre nudged a stray peach back onto his bread. “I have it on good authority the two of you used to have sex.”

A hint of shocked laughter. “What?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s the talk of the town, apparently.” He licked the juice from his finger. “Don’t worry, I shut it down.”

Enjolras messed with his hair. “Good. If that isn’t the last thing I need right now…”

Combeferre glanced at the clock. “I’d better get going. I have to be in the infirmary all afternoon. But I might come up tonight, if that’s okay with you?”

“It’s always okay,” Enjolras said. “I’ll be late, though.” His watch would end at midnight, and he’d have something to eat before coming back upstairs. He always did.

Combeferre didn’t sleep there much. He had a bed in the main house, and he usually stuck to it. But some nights, when he needed the sleep, it was easier to get in Enjolras’s room than anywhere else. 

Joly was writing notes when he got to the infirmary. “Hey,” he greeted Combeferre, “perfect! Tell me, do you think snakes dream?”

“Uh… no.” Combeferre realized he was still wearing his scarf, and took it off. “Have you had lunch yet?”

“I was going to, but then Jehan showed me this rash on his arm that looked like a flying snake and I got distracted.” His notes, it turned out, were mostly drawings of snakes. “He’s fine, by the way.”

“Would you do me a favor, if you’re going now? Take this scarf back down to the closet?”

“Sure!” Joly chirped. “I’ll return it for you. Scarves kind of look like snakes, don’t they?”

“Kind of,” Combeferre allowed. He handed Joly the scarf. “Have a good lunch. You don’t have to hurry back.”

Alone, Combeferre appraised the infirmary. It was in good order, really. They’d spent so much of the first year organizing and reorganizing and studying that it came as a surprise when there was a moment of calm. 

It was only a moment, though. He heard footsteps at the door and turned around.

“Musichetta,” he said warmly. “Joly’s just gone, I’m afraid. He was on his way to lunch. You can probably catch up.”

“I’m here to see you, actually,” she said.

“If this is about the glasses, seriously, tell Bossuet it’s no big deal, I--”

“No,” Musichetta said, more firmly now. “I came to talk to you about something else.”

There was something in her tone that made him pause. Something serious. He noticed then how her hands were clasped together, squeezing tightly enough to turn her skin lighter from the pressure. “Have a seat, then.”

He crossed to the door and closed it behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooooooh cliffhanger
> 
> June was a Very Bad Time and I did not get much writing done. I'm working on it.


	9. malchance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac rocked back on his heels. “B? What would you do if you didn’t have Chetta and Joly?”
> 
> “Umm, why, are they gonna leave me?” Bossuet rummaged through the box and found a unicorn headband. “Oh, sweet, do you think I can have this?”
> 
> Courfeyrac shrugged. “Anything in the attic is supposed to be up for grabs.”
> 
> “Joly’s gonna love it,” he said, setting aside the headband. “Ooh, jackpot, sheets.” They were little girl sheets, with princesses and fairies and pink polka dots, but they’d fit some of the cots and it always helped to have extras.
> 
> “I’m trying to have a serious conversation, here.” 
> 
> Bossuet looked up. “Uh, why?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for like... some light food stuff I guess, also a mention of abortion

“Hey, hot stuff,” Bossuet said, leaning against the back of a chair. “Wanna make out?”

Joly bent his head back to look at him. “Uh, not right now. You’re up early.”

“Chetta got you up late. I’m perfectly on time.”

His boyfriend raised an eyebrow and went back to his stretching. _Damn,_ his ass looked good. “You might not want to lean on that chair like that.”

Bossuet opened his mouth to ask why not, but before he’d shaped the sounds, the back of the chair slipped from under his arms. The chair clattered to the floor of the library and he narrowly avoided the same fate. “Shit, how did you know that would happen?”

Joly moved to sit cross-legged on the floor and shrugged. “I don’t know, it just seemed like something that would happen to you.” He leaned forward into a low back stretch with a little wince.

“Bad day?”

“Just a little sore.” That could mean anything. Joly wasn’t much of a complainer. He took meds to control his arthritis, but he’d been having more bad days lately. There was a chance it was stress-related, or the cold weather, but it just as easily could have been his condition getting worse. Without access to more advanced treatment, there wasn’t much of anything to do about it. He just tried to take care of himself as best he could. Bossuet tried to take care of him too.

“Want a back rub?”

Joly smiled. Bossuet loved this smile, shy and private. Then again, he loved all Joly’s smiles. “Right now?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded and unfurled himself to stretch out on his belly on the floor. “Thanks,” he said, voice muffled against the carpet.

Bossuet came around the table and straddled Joly’s hips. He blew on his hands to make sure they were warm before he rested them on Joly’s shoulders. He started with light touches, because too much pressure was a no-go on a bad day. When that seemed fine, he increased the pressure gently, until Joly made a soft noise beneath him. That meant he was in the right zone. 

He smiled to himself. He ran his hands up to the back of Joly’s neck, then worked his way diligently down either side of his spine. When he made his way to the sensitive spot just above the hips, Joly moaned softly and twitched, pushing up against his hands.

“Good or bad?” Bossuet asked.

“Good,” Joly said. They had a safe word, but Bossuet liked to check in anyway.

“Good,” Bossuet repeated, pressing again in the way Joly liked. He leaned forward so he was closer to Joly and whispered “I love you.”

Joly made another sighing noise in the back of his throat. For such a talkative person, he went shockingly nonverbal when experiencing pain or pleasure. He twisted under Bossuet, rising up for a kiss.

Bossuet planted his hands on the floor to keep his weight off Joly as they levered into a better making-out position. 

Joly wrapped his arms around Bossuet’s neck, drawing him close. He dotted Bossuet’s lips with small kisses.

Bossuet hummed against his lips. Joly was so pretty and delicate, but he kissed with a hunger Bossuet never got tired of. He leaned into the next kiss, tongue and all, until Joly was flat on his back with Bossuet above him. He rested one of his knees between Joly’s legs, easing them apart--

“Pineapple,” Joly panted beneath him.

Bossuet rolled off him. “I thought we were having fun.”

“We were, but we can’t,” Joly swallowed. “We can’t do that here.”

“Are you sure?” Bossuet mimed crawling to him on all fours.

Joly closed his eyes. “Anyone could walk in.”

“That’s part of the thrill,” Bossuet said, but he was just teasing now.

“They have school in here,” Joly said. “There are four year olds. Hard pass on that kind of voyeurism, thanks.” He pushed himself back to sitting. “On the plus side, I think you’ve effectively wrecked my concentration, so we can skip meditating and go straight down to breakfast if you’re hungry.”

Bossuet frowned. “We can meditate, if you want?”

Joly giggled. “I’m not going to torture you. It’s fine, I’m ready.”

It was true that Bossuet had failed to learn to meditate when Joly had tried to teach him. He’d just kept thinking of puns about being still and clearing his mind, and he couldn’t wait to tell Joly, and they’d had a laugh together, but it wasn’t exactly what Joly had had in mind, and they hadn’t tried it again.

They parted ways after a breakfast of toasted bread with a variety of jams and omelets that had been frozen when there had been a surplus of eggs, before laying stopped for the winter. If Musichetta asked, Bossuet always lied and said meals stood up to freezing and reheating, but it wasn’t the same, not really. But if he hadn’t complained last winter, when they were barely scraping above starvation, he sure wasn’t going to complain now.

He kissed Joly on the temple-- Joly didn’t like to kiss on the mouth just after eating-- and headed to his work assignment with Courfeyrac reorganizing the attic. They’d put a lot of extra supplies up there when they’d moved in last year, and with winter set in the farming work had slowed down enough that there was time now to go through it all.

“Do you think anyone wants a bicycle?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Maybe Gavroche? Or, like, is there a basket? Maybe we could use it to carry stuff.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “Not much fun on the grounds, is it? There’s no street. You'd just be going up and down the drive, forever.”

“Guess not.” Bossuet opened a box. “Oh, man, I think this is Cosette’s stuff.”

“Good thing Marius isn’t here, then,” Courfeyrac said. “He’d probably take something as a souvenir.”

Bossuet wrinkled his nose. “Ew.”

“Yeah, he’s weird.” Courfeyrac rocked back on his heels. “B? What would you do if you didn’t have Chetta and Joly?”

“Umm, why, are they gonna leave me?” Bossuet rummaged through the box and found a unicorn headband. “Oh, sweet, do you think I can have this?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Anything in the attic is supposed to be up for grabs.”

“Joly’s gonna love it,” he said, setting aside the headband. “Ooh, jackpot, sheets.” They were little girl sheets, with princesses and fairies and pink polka dots, but they’d fit some of the cots and it always helped to have extras.

“I’m trying to have a serious conversation, here.” 

Bossuet looked up. “Uh, why?”

“Because,” Courfeyrac sighed. “I think I’m alone. Like, in a forever way?”

“Dude,” Bossuet said, because this was getting too real. “You’re, like, super lovable. I don’t think there’s any reason to--”

“It’s the end of the world, B. It’s not like I’m going to meet someone.”

“And you think I can help you with that?” Bossuet waved his hands in the air. “Me? I got my partners by accident.”

“I think we’re _alike,_ ” Courfeyrac said. “So it could be instructive. To find out what you’d do in my position.”

“Okay, okay, one: we are not alike. You’re, like, way cooler than me, so,” Bossuet fumbled. “So, I don’t have anything to teach you. You’ve got single friends! Talk about this with Combeferre. Talk about it with Enjolras!”

“Enjolras is a special case,” Courfeyrac said mournfully. “He doesn’t have anything to teach me.”

“ _I_ don’t have anything to teach you!”

“It’s, like, it’s a thought experiment,” Courfeyrac argued. “If you were alone. How would you handle it?”

Bossuet chewed at a hangnail on his thumb. He tasted blood. “Assuming it’s not that they left me or, or died or something, because that’s a totally different thing, but if we assume that I never met them, I guess, like, I wouldn’t know the difference?” He shifted. “Maybe I’d be lonely, but maybe not. I wasn’t, you know? Before? But also I was twenty-three, so what did I know, you know?”

Courfeyrac sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

“I mean, I wasn’t any good at hooking up. I thought my calling in life was to be someone’s weird uncle, which was gonna be tough, you know, since I was an only child. But you! You’re nothing like me,” Bossuet repeated. “You could pick up anybody. And you had one of those cool jobs parents are proud of.”

“My dad told me not to call anymore,” Courfeyrac reminded him. “Your mom came to all your shows.”

“I’m a failed comedian, dude,” Bossuet said. “It’s the apocalypse. I’m useless. If I weren’t so likeable, I’d be dead.”

Courfeyrac squinted. “Not a ton of use for lawyers at this point either.”

“Sure, sure,” he agreed. “But you’re smart, and you’re capable, and you’re really valued here. I know that’s not the same as finding your soulmate, or soulmates, or whatever. But it counts for something. You matter, you know? You could do worse.”

“Hmm.” Courfeyrac turned back to his corner of the attic. “Do you think we can repurpose Christmas decorations, or is that disrespectful?”

“I don’t know,” Bossuet said. “That’s a little outside my expertise. Everything in the attic is supposed to be up for grabs, though, right?”

“Right, right,” Courfeyrac said.

When they broke for lunch, the dining room was mostly deserted but for Jehan, who was coloring some kind of hand-drawn fractal mandala while crackers and peanut butter sat near his other hand.

“Yo, Jehan, what would you do with a bike?” Bossuet asked. 

Jehan looked thoughtful for a moment, then said “Take the wheels off, festoon the frame with ribbons, and title it ‘The Futility of Love.’”

“That’s bleak,” Courfeyrac observed.

“I don’t know how to ride,” Jehan said, and returned to his coloring.

They didn’t work all the way until dinner. For most jobs, there weren’t real work-hours requirements; when the work was done, they got to stop. Now that it was too cold to be outside, Bossuet spent most of his free time attempting to learn to knit, which Cosette had volunteered to teach him before she’d realized what an ordeal it was going to be.

She was showing him how to finish a row for what must have been the eighth time when he heard Joly coming down the hall. He set his borrowed needles and mangled yarn down for Cosette to unravel and turned, already grinning.

“How’d you know it was me?” Joly asked.

“I’d know you anywhere.” There was a distinctive unevenness to Joly’s gait, even on a good day, but it was more fun to keep it a mystery than to overexplain. “Walk me to dinner?”

Dinner was a leftover banquet, which meant Musichetta was able to sit down with them on time for once. Usually, the amount of kitchen supervisory work made her late to dinner, except for the day or two a week she handed the shift off to someone else. Her hair was gathered into a low bun at the back of her neck. She looked tired. 

“Hi, baby,” he greeted her, craning up for a kiss.

A strange look crossed her face but she bent to kiss him, and then Joly. As the tallest of the three, she’d have had to bend to kiss them even if they hadn’t already been seated. Then she settled herself into the space they made between them on the bench.

“Can I talk to you guys?” she asked quietly.

“Of course,” Bossuet said, at the same time that Joly on her other side was saying “anytime.”

“Not now,” she said. “After dinner. By ourselves?”

“Okay,” Bossuet agreed.

“Is everything okay?” Joly asked.

She bit her lip. “I think so.”

Bossuet put his hand on her thigh and squeezed.

Musichetta smiled. She still looked tired, but she put her hand on top of his hand and squeezed back.

Leftover banquets meant kitchen staff had run out of either room in the freezers or fresh ingredients, or possibly fucks to give, and thawed bits and bats of whatever to serve instead of cooking anything new. There wasn’t enough lasagna or ratatouille or mushroom risotto for everyone to have the same thing, but there was enough cobbled together for everyone to have _something_ , and the half-portions of potatoes au gratin or tomato and cheese galettes from the summer didn’t go to waste.

It was kind of fun, really, seeing what everyone chose and remembering all the dinners they’d shared up to now. Family dinner was chaotic and kind of overwhelming, but beloved. Bossuet wasn’t a fanatic about it like Courfeyrac or Enjolras, but it was soothing to feel like a community. It was like being back in university, everyone coming together with a common purpose and common experience. It helped him remember what all the work was for. It was for these people, his friends and their families, and he loved them, even the ones he didn’t know all that well.

Bossuet served himself a heap of stroganoff and roasted broccolini. Beside him, Musichetta ate a sliver of a spinach quiche and a small berry tartine. He waited to see if she’d take anything else, but when she finally cleared her plate she left it empty, chatting coolly with Cosette across the table and sipping her glass of water.

The attendance requirement for dinner didn’t extend for any set amount of time, and except when there were announcements the earliest people started to trickle out after half an hour or so. Today was no exception, and it wasn’t long after that that Musichetta allowed Cosette to get drawn into a conversation with Jehan, and laid one hand on each of her boyfriends’ knees.

“Come with me,” she whispered.

They deposited their used dishes in the bin for the cleanup crew and slipped from the room. They didn’t stay in the house, which wasn’t a huge surprise. There weren’t many opportunities for privacy there, even with most people still at dinner. Instead, Musichetta led them up to the office over the garage.

Nominally, the office was for anyone’s use, but given that Enjolras lived there, most people left it alone. But Enjolras was on cleanup tonight, so no one would be there now.

Bossuet followed Joly up the stairs. It was slow, and by the time they made it to the top, Musichetta had turned the light on in the office and dropped into one of the two chairs. Bossuet pulled the second chair to face hers and motioned for Joly to sit in it. Once he was satisfied they were comfortable, he sat on the floor between them, one shoulder touching each of their knees.

Musichetta took an audible breath. “I-- I don’t know how to say this.”

“You can tell us anything,” Joly said. It sounded like a plea. Bossuet nudged him supportively.

“Okay.” She pulled the sleeve of her sweatshirt down to cover the scar on her forearm. Several months on, it was more healed than not, but it was sensitive to the touch and she didn’t like to look at it. “Okay,” she said again. “I’m pregnant.”

“What?” Bossuet’s voice was sharper than he could remember it being in his whole life, but his stomach felt like it had fallen out.

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, as though it had been a simple matter of him not hearing her.

“But you’re on the pill,” he said desperately. “Are you sure?”

Musichetta nodded. “I waited until I was sure.”

“Antibiotics.” Joly’s voice was flat. “I put you on antibiotics for your arm. There’s an interaction with oral contraception, makes it less effective.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s what Combeferre said.”

“I’m sorry,” Joly said. He sounded soft and thick, and when Bossuet turned to look at him, he saw that Joly was crying. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think. I’ll do whatever you want to make this right, I’ll get mifepristone, I’ll take care of you--”

Musichetta’s arms tightened across her belly. “No. I don’t-- I thought about it, of course I thought about it, but by the time I realized-- it’s not as effective after ten weeks, and if it failed we’d have to do surgery, and-- no.” She licked her lips. Her eyes had tears in them too. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I don’t want to. I’m sorry, I know that’s selfish, I know it’s not what we agreed, but…”

“Hey,” Bossuet said. He laid a hand on her knee. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

She laughed in that way that was still mostly crying. “It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? It’s not how I pictured starting our family, but we could do it, couldn’t we?”

“Of course we can,” he told her. There wasn’t anything to think about, not really. If she wanted to do it, the rest of it they could figure out.

“We’re going to have a baby,” Joly said. He sounded numb.

“We’re going to have a baby,” Musichetta repeated, and started sobbing.

Bossuet stood and wrapped his arms around her. “You’re going to make an incredible mother.”

Joly stumbled over to them and leaned into their shared embrace, halfway on Musichetta’s lap and half on her shoulder. “I love you.”

Musichetta entwined one arm in each of theirs, tears still coming down her face. “I love you so much.”

They stayed that way, crying and holding each other, as the last of the sunlight faded out the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of my medical facts here are good and reliable and some of them aren't. please consult an actual doctor regarding your reproductive options, rather than some rando on the internet who had a lot of academic potential but did not get a graduate degree in medicine.
> 
> I thiiiiink Grantaire is gonna go next, and then Enjolras, and I think Jehan should get to speak for themself before I start repeating people?? I'm not decided if anyone else gets their own say or if they just get to exist. And they're not going to repeat in order, we're going to put the library of characters on shuffle and see who's right for what comes next like I've been doing. ANYWAY. I guess if there's characters you're dying to hear from or other burning questions, leave them below. I love to hear from you and you're very special to me for being here.


	10. assoiffé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing Grantaire was aware of, every time he woke up (which he tried to do as little of as possible), was wanting a drink. By the time his eyes were open, he’d usually remembered to crave Enjolras, too. Sometimes, as a distant third place, he was thirsty for water, to combat dehydration. Ignoring all of those longings as much as he could occupied the vast majority of his energy. It was hard to find time for self-pity, although he managed it somehow. He was a goddamn martyr to his craft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for: depression, anxiety, alcohol abuse, unintentional weight loss, chronic illness, fatalistic thoughts, mentions of death, disordered eating if you squint
> 
> this one is kind of heavy but I had the best time writing it. also it's a long one.

There had been a time in Grantaire’s life when he’d attended a lot of poetry readings. He’d gone to the first one to support Jehan, and kept going because sometimes the wine was free. At one of these readings, a poet had said that the queer experience was defined by longing.

Grantaire had made fun of this poem for a long time-- _hey, Bossuet, do you feel defined by longing today?_ \-- but there was no denying that in his specific case, it was mostly true.

The first thing he was aware of, every time he woke up (which he tried to do as little of as possible), was wanting a drink. By the time his eyes were open, he’d usually remembered to crave Enjolras, too. Sometimes, as a distant third place, he was thirsty for water, to combat dehydration. Over the last year, his appetite had whittled away to nothing, but awareness of hunger for food to keep his body alive occasionally shouldered its way into his consciousness. Ignoring all of those longings as much as he could occupied the vast majority of his energy. It was hard to find time for self-pity, although he managed it somehow. He was a goddamn martyr to his craft.

It was fucking freezing in the barn this morning. He should’ve slept with the goats instead of in the loft. It was dirty down there, but at least the goats were warm. When he was fat he might not have cared as much, but he didn’t retain body heat as well anymore. He also wasn’t drunk all the time, which probably didn’t help, either.

The light filtering in was pretty pale, which suggested that he had not slept until midday like usual. Just as he noticed that, he also heard the sound of someone on the ladder to the loft. That must have been what woke him. He wasn’t a great sleeper, now that he wasn’t drunk all the time.

By the time Joly emerged into the loft, he was panting from the effort, his breath puffing in front of him in little clouds. “Time’s up.”

“For what? Shit, is the final exam today?” Grantaire propped himself up on his elbows, even though it made him colder to move from the single spot in his thermal sleeping bag that was warmed by his body. “Do you think I’m gonna fail?”

“Don’t be cute,” Joly snapped. “I’ve been really patient. Everyone’s been really patient, but you have to get up now. It’s ridiculous.”

He was well aware the situation was ridiculous. But, like, what else was he supposed to do?

But also… this wasn’t like Joly. Joly was the nicest person in the world. One time, a woman on the metro had stepped on Joly’s foot, and Grantaire had been able to tell that it had been agonizing for Joly, because his feet often hurt anyway, but _he_ had apologized for making _her_ uncomfortable by yelping in pain. That was the kind of person Joly was: the kind of person who took care of other people, even when they didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t somebody who yelled at his friends.

“Is everything okay, dude?” Grantaire asked. He kept his voice as neutral as he could.

Joly plopped down heavily beside him. “No, everything is not okay. My hip hurts all the time and I can’t sleep and we’re going to run out of electricity and medicine and my best friend is going to freeze to death in the barn.”

“I’m not going to freeze to death,” Grantaire said, because _am I still your best friend_ felt inappropriate.

“You might!” The light wasn’t good enough to see Joly’s face, but Grantaire could hear his voice growing thick with what was probably crying. With one hand, he scratched his wrist. “It’s really cold out here and my whole body gets sore climbing the ladder and I’m allergic to the stupid hay. What if my kid is allergic to the hay and I can’t bring them out here and they never get to know you?”

Grantaire sat all the way up with a speed that was kind of impressive, considering how cold he was. “What? Are you spinning out, or…?” He couldn’t even say it. He was a coward at heart. He’d have apologized, but everyone already knew that about him, and if they were let down, it was their own fault.

“No! Or, yeah, I’m spiralling, but also, yes, I’m having a kid.”

“Whoa.”

Joly sighed. “Yeah. Musichetta’s pregnant. She wants to have the baby.”

“Do _you_ want to have the baby?” Grantaire asked, because someone had to ask these things. Nothing Joly had said so far was really screaming delight with impending parenthood.

“I don’t know!” Joly’s voice rose into panicked whining. “I wanted to have a baby two years ago, when everything was different. Now, I don’t… what kind of world is this to bring a person into? It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” Grantaire put his hand on Joly’s shoulder. He was somewhere around 99% sure physical contact would be appreciated. “You guys have so much love to give a kid. And it’s safe in here, safer than a lot of kids got out there. Trust me.”

Joly sniffled. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” It felt mean to even think, but any time Grantaire successfully calmed Joly down, he was relieved.

Joly punched Grantaire’s upper arm. It wasn’t hard, because it was Joly, but it had intent behind it. “I’m going to need you. If I’m going to do this-- and, you know, it seems like it’s happening-- I’m just really going to fucking need my friends to be all in. So you have to try, okay? I know it’s not easy but I need you to do it, for me.”

There was a part of Grantaire that wanted to make Joly define what, exactly, it was he was he was asking for. He didn’t. The bigger part of him already knew. “You want me to get up. You want me to come back to the house.”

“You haven’t broken any rules in a long time,” Joly said. “Except, like, missing dinner, but no one’s even keeping track of that.”

“I guarantee you Enjolras is keeping track.”

“Fuck Enjolras!” Joly exclaimed. “This isn’t about him. This is about you, and I know you can do it. You’re sober now.”

“No, I’m not,” Grantaire said. “I’m not _drinking,_ because I don’t have access. That’s different from being sober on purpose, and you know it. If you left a bottle of mouthwash out here right now I’d be drinking the whole thing by the time you turned your back.”

It hurt to say this, and hurt more because there had been a brief time when it hadn’t been true. He’d stayed sober by choice for half a year once. If he’d stopped drinking at any other point in human history, he probably would’ve had a chance. But six months before the end of the world was a terrible time to quit drinking. Joly said it wasn’t his fault he hadn’t been strong enough to make it, but that was hard to believe.

“I’m not going to let that happen to you.” Joly laid his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. 

“You don’t have control over what happens to me. No one does.” Grantaire patted Joly’s hair. “You’re warm.”

“I don’t have hypothermia from sleeping in a barn,” Joly murmured. 

Grantaire frowned. “No, like, I think you’ve got a fever.” He moved his hand to Joly’s forehead. 

“I’m not feeling great,” Joly admitted. “I think I’m having a flare.”

“You should be in bed,” Grantaire said. 

Joly turned his palms up in a helpless gesture. Now that he thought about it, the hands were a little swollen. “Yeah, but what if I’m wrong and I’m coming down with something? Can I really lie in the bed where my pregnant girlfriend sleeps and get her sick and give our baby rubella and have them come out deaf?”

“I’m pretty sure Jehan knows how to sign. We would all learn how to talk to your baby if it was deaf,” Grantaire said. “Anyway, you and Musichetta were both vaccinated for rubella, so you don’t have rubella and even if you do, she’s not going to get it from you.”

Joly sighed heavily. “I’m probably just sick the way I’m usually sick,” he agreed. “Which is a whole other thing, because how can I raise a baby if I don’t know whether I’m going to be able to stand up or tie my shoes on any given day? And I probably make it worse by worrying, but it’s like, how am I supposed to not worry?”

Grantaire tapped Joly’s warm forehead. “You’re getting pulled under your own current here.”

“I knooooow.”

“Which is what comes, perhaps, of traipsing about in the dead of winter when you’re not feeling well and then _climbing a ladder_ , do you have a death wish?”

“Hey, hey, why are we being mean to me all of a sudden?” Joly complained, laced with a tiny laugh. “I thought we were being mean to you, but now there’s turntables.”

Grantaire shook his head. “That’s not the expression.”

“I know, I just thought it would make you smile.”

“Yeah, you’re very sweet.” Grantaire rolled his eyes. “And you’re going to go back to bed now, right?”

Joly removed himself from Grantaire’s shoulder and looked at him with wide eyes. 

Grantaire knew he’d been had before Joly opened his mouth. 

“Would you walk me? I’m not super steady on my feet.”

He’d laid it on a little thick, Grantaire thought. Joly sometimes needed help doing stuff, but he wasn’t a baby about it. But it wasn’t like Grantaire could call him on it, because what kind of an asshole made jokes at the expense of his sick friend? This was the double-bind Joly had placed him in, because Joly was much more devious than people gave him credit for. 

So Grantaire’s options were these: either he helped Joly get home safely, which conveniently also meant he would be in the house, which was what Joly had wanted all along; or he refused to do it and looked like real asshole. Actually, he looked like an asshole either way, but he wasn’t going to be able to live with himself if he blew Joly off to nap with the goats and Joly hurt himself worse.

“Fine, you win.” He freed his legs from his sleeping bag. The coldness of the air that enveloped his body was breathtaking. Literally took his breath away. He played it off, he thought.

He went down the ladder first, mostly so he didn’t have to watch Joly struggle, but also a little bit so if Joly fell he’d be cushioned by Grantaire on the way down. A stupid plan, in all probability, but the best he had.

Joly didn’t fall, though his exit of the barn wasn’t exactly graceful. He was, indeed, noticeably unsteady on his feet. Grantaire offered his hand for support and Joly took it, though Grantaire didn’t know whether that was for a stabilizing influence or just because Joly was glad to be leading him back to the house. He did seem suspiciously happy for someone whose body was attacking itself.

“Don’t say anything,” Joly murmured, as he limped along toward the house. “About the baby. We’re still thinking about how we want to tell people.”

“Did you tell me about the state of your girlfriend’s uterus without clearing it with her first? Are you going to get in trouble for telling me?”

“I’m not going to get in trouble. I’m allowed to talk about it, with pre-approved people, but _you’re_ not allowed, so keep a lid on it.” Joly drew a sharp breath and closed his eyes against whatever pain he was in.

“I’m pre-approved? Me?” Grantaire puffed out his cheeks. “That’s gotta be the first time ever.”

“Well, you can keep a secret, can’t you?”

Indeed.

He caught a few glances in their direction as they got closer to the house, but none from any of their close friends, and they made it inside without comment.

The communal bedrooms in the North Wing were on the lower level, which meant he didn’t have to push Joly up the stairs. Communal bedrooms. Going to be a challenge with a baby. But they were in the house now, and Grantaire had more or less promised not to talk about the pregnancy where anyone might overhear, so he kept that thought to himself.

The room itself was empty, though, which was good. Neither of them needed an audience for this. Joly clung to his hand as he lowered himself into the bedding he shared with his partners. “Thank you,” he breathed.

Grantaire tucked his hand into his sweatshirt pocket and flexed it a few times to work out the pressure from Joly’s fingers. “Want me to get someone for you? Bossuet? Combeferre?”

Joly shook his head. “No, I’m just going to rest.”

“Do you need me to tell anybody you’re here? Won’t you be missed?”

“Combeferre has the infirmary keys, he’ll be fine without me.”

Grantaire fidgeted. “Have you eaten?”

“You sound like me,” Joly said. “No, I went to meditate and I couldn’t stop fretting, so I came to see you instead. Never made it to the dining room. But it’s fine, I’ll get something later.”

“I’m not going to leave you by yourself with nothing to eat,” Grantaire argued. “That’s pathetic and cruel. Just, let me go get you a snack, and I’ll be right back.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Uh, sure,” Grantaire lied. “But I’m going to. Stay right there.”

He could hear people in the dining room, finishing up their morning meal before heading off to their days of labor and productivity. It would be an easy thing, to walk in and take food away with him. Anyone was allowed to do that. There was always some portable stuff set out for if people wanted to take it with them for between-meal snacking. Food in bedrooms was iffy, but Joly was sick and that was a special circumstance. 

But he couldn’t do it. There were too many potentially hostile people in there. He took a left down the hallway and rerouted to the kitchen instead.

Azelma and Gavroche were in the kitchen with Musichetta and the new guy, and they both saw him before she did. Azelma’s eyes went wide and her mouth opened a little; of course, he hadn’t been seen here in… well, he wasn’t exactly sure how long. He didn’t think it had been New Year’s yet, so probably it was December now? And the last time he’d been in the house was… October? September? He hadn’t been keeping track. Days in the barn were all the same, except for weather.

“R!” Gavroche called, looking genuinely happy to see him in a way that turned his stomach.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted.

Musichetta turned, looking unhappy. She didn’t look any different. He wondered why he’d expected her to. “Hi, R. You’re not supposed to be in here.”

He looked down. He was about half a meter into the one room he was explicitly forbidden from entering, instead of simply discouraged. He backed up until he’d edged over the threshold. “Hi, hey. I’m not trying to steal anything.”

In the far corner of the kitchen, the new guy visibly startled.

“Chetta, I came to grab some food for Joly. He’s flaring, and he’s in bed now and he says he’s okay, and he didn’t want me to tell anyone, but I thought…” Grantaire let himself stop talking, since Musichetta wasn’t listening to him anymore.

Instead, she threw open the pantry and started grabbing things out of it. “Hold this,” she said, and thrust a box of crackers at him.

“Okay,” he said, and stepped back into the kitchen to take it. “I just thought you’d want to know.”

She didn’t respond, just continued rifling through the pantry and occasionally holding an item out for him to take. When she was satisfied with her collection, she said “Let’s go.”

Grantaire followed Musichetta back out of the kitchen and back through the house to the North Wing, to the Yellow Room, his arms full of snack foods.

Musichetta went directly to Joly’s side. “Hi, handsome.”

“Grantaire told?” Joly said. “That’s so not cool. You’re very not cool.”

“Agreed,” Grantaire said. “I brought you snacks, though.”

Musichetta stroked her boyfriend’s head. “Heard you’re not feeling good.”

“It’s a bad day,” Joly said, relaxing into her touch like a cat being petted. “I’m okay, though, you didn’t have to come.”

“I wanted to,” she said. “But if you want me to leave, I can leave.”

Joly cuddled up to her. “I don’t want you to leave.”

She smiled. “Okay, then.” She looked up at Grantaire, who stood a few paces behind with his arms full of all the things she’d handed him in the kitchen. “Thanks for getting me. You can put that stuff anywhere.”

He found a bare patch of floor and left the crackers, and the peanut butter, and the canned peaches, and everything else in it. Hands empty now, he shoved them into his kangaroo pocket to hide that they had nothing better to do. “I guess my work here is done.”

Joly craned his head up. “You should take a shower.”

“Am I that gross?”

“No,” Joly said, his voice too high, at the same time Musichetta was saying in a low tone “well, kinda.”

“I just think it’ll make you feel better,” Joly said. “You’re already here, and that’s the hard part.”

It was the part he had failed at, on the occasions he had wanted a shower and not succeeded in getting it. He had last bathed… when? It had been too cold to use the water in the animal troughs for a while. He’d used Éponine’s bathroom a few times. Most recently… might have been a week ago, which, yeah, was probably too long for people who didn’t live in a literal barn.

Grantaire was, on occasion, capable of taking good advice. He took a towel and some suitable clothes from the shelf of unclaimed items in the closet and stepped into the bathroom. 

He turned his back on the mirror as he undressed.

The water heater had been one of the first nonessential appliances to be disconnected from the electrical grid. At this time of year, both the taps produced ice-cold water. There had been a brief petition last winter to turn the heater back on, but it had failed, since cold water helped enforce the shower time limit and reduce water waste.

Because of the cold water, the shower couldn’t exactly be called pleasant, but he did leave it feeling cleansed, even if the numbness in his fingers made doing up the buttons on his chunky gray sweater a struggle. He dumped his dirty clothes in the laundry hamper and took off for the infirmary.

“Grantaire!” Combeferre was clearly surprised to see him. “Do you need anything?”

“No, no,” Grantaire said, already backing away. “I just wanted to let you know Joly’s not feeling well. He’s back in bed, and Chetta’s with him, so it’s probably fine, but I don’t think you’ll see him in here today.”

Combeferre frowned a little. “Well, thank you for letting me know. Maybe I’ll check on him later.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“It’s good to see you,” Combeferre said, with a forced smile.

“Uh, you too.” Grantaire left, and headed...

Well, what else was there to do? Go back to the barn and his self-imposed exile? The relative warmth of the house made that option unappealing. It was possible that when he had made the decision to retreat to the least-inhabited corner of the property, he had improperly considered the potential long-term ramifications of this course of action.

He walked the halls of the house. The most direct route to anywhere went through the Heart, but in this weather there were a lot of people working in there, and he wasn’t ready to be seen by that many. Not while he was still trying out the idea of being here.

When he found himself outside the kitchen again, there was only one person left in it.

“Hey,” he said.

The new guy looked up from whatever he was doing at the table, looking startled. “Oh. Hi. I don’t know if you remember me, I’m--”

“Marius. I remember.” There had not been enough whiskey in the bottle to obscure the memory. “Sorry about, you know, stealing from you.”

Marius shrugged. “It’s okay. I don’t even know why I kept it that long. My grandfather would have wanted it to be appreciated.” Then, as if realizing what he’d just said, he turned red and started to splutter. “Uh, not that, I mean--”

“Let’s not get trapped in a cycle of apologies,” Grantaire cut him off. “Do you have anything warm? Even hot water would work, I’m just freezing and my stomach is empty, and I figured if I could kill two birds with one stone…” He paused. “You know, that’s a violent expression. Maybe I shouldn’t say that anymore.”

“Would you like me to put, like, noodles in it?” Marius asked. “Like, a cup of soup or something?”

“That would be great.”

Marius jumped up. “Yeah, I can definitely do that! Why don’t you come in and…” He chewed his lip.

Grantaire held his hands up. “Can’t cross the threshold or I’ll burst into flame like a demon in church, but I’m good here.” He slid down the wall and sat cross-legged on the floor.

As Marius bustled around lighting a burner and adding instant noodles and some kind of bouillon cube, Grantaire’s hands went to his hair and tried to shake the water from it. Having wet hair always made him feel vulnerable. It was primal or something.

Marius ladled his soup into a mug and brought it out to the hallway.

“Thanks,” Grantaire mumbled, wrapping his hands around the mug. Warmth spread through his hands, as requested.

Marius dropped to the floor next to him.

“Oh, you don’t have to stay,” Grantaire said. “I can leave the cup in the dish bin in the dining room, if you want to get back to--”

“Is Joly okay?” Marius asked instead of letting him keep talking.

“He will be,” Grantaire said, hedging his bets.

“That’s good. He’s really nice.”

It had not occurred to Grantaire that Marius knew Joly, though this seemed obvious now. Marius had been living there for months. At this point, Grantaire was the bigger stranger. “He is nice.”

Grantaire sipped his soup. It was basically just salty water with noodles floating in it, but given that salt and noodles were above and beyond what he’d asked for when he’d shown up between meals, that was fine.

Marius fidgeted. “Can I ask--”

Nothing good ever followed those words.

“--why aren’t you allowed in the kitchen?”

“Hnh.” Grantaire inhaled some of the steam from his salty noodle water while he thought about how to answer. “Have you ever downed a bottle of vanilla extract to stave off alcohol withdrawals?”

“No?”

“Well, I have, and that’s why I’m not allowed in the kitchen anymore.” He took another swallow, though the soup was still a little too hot for it. It was something to do.

“Oh.” He didn’t have to look at Marius to know he was aghast. Which, like, join the club. Meetings were twice a week. “Did that… work?”

Grantaire tipped his head in a half-nod, half-shrug. “It’s thirty-five percent alcohol by volume, so, yeah, it got the job done. Pretty unpleasant, though. And Musichetta was pissed.”

He sat there letting the mug of soup warm him inside and out for as long as he could. Just before the last swallow was about to turn the corner from “hot enough to tolerate” to “lukewarm and gross,” he tipped it back. “Thanks again for feeding me,” he said, handing the mug back to Marius.

“It’s what we do,” Marius said, giggling nervously. “Although I don’t think I’m very good at it.”

“Ah, it’s not your permanent assignment?” That made sense, really. He didn’t seem like a natural.

Marius shook his head. “No, I’m supposed to meet with someone from the committee this week to talk about my long-term prospects.”

Someone from the committee. Grantaire hoped it was Courfeyrac. Enjolras would eat this kid alive. “Good luck, then.”

“Thank you.” Marius paused. “I hope we’ll see you around?”

“Maybe.” He stood up. “Hey, if you needed a place to be, like, _calm_ in? Where would you go?”

A dreamy look came over Marius’s face. “The library,” he said.

Oh boy. Grantaire made a note to tell Éponine she had competition for her girl. 

“I don’t like crowds too much,” Marius confessed. “It’s quiet there. When the kids are gone. Which I think they will be in about ten minutes?”

The library. He hadn’t considered it, but Cosette was awkward around him, and probably would be more so since the last time she’d seen him he’d interrupted her tryst. That could work in his favor if he needed a secluded corner to be left alone in.

“Good idea,” he said. “I don’t like crowds either.”

He wandered the less-used halls for as long as possible to make sure he missed the rush of lessons letting out for the day. When he made it to the library, Cosette had her back to the doorway and was humming to herself as she reshelved books.

“What’ve you got there?” he asked, and she nearly dropped the book she was holding.

“Birds of Europe,” she said, holding it up so he could see the cover. “We were doing wildlife today.”

“Cool,” he said, “hey, I have a proposition for you.”

“A… proposition?” Cosette’s skin was already rosy but it went even rosier, which he wouldn’t have thought was possible.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “I need a place to be during the day, and if my memory serves, most of what libraries do is be warm-ish and kind of empty, which is all I’m looking for.”

Cosette frowned. “I wouldn’t say that’s _most_ of what I do.”

“Is there a nook or something that I can hide in or what?”

Wordlessly, perhaps exhausted by him already, she pointed him in the direction of a spot where she wouldn’t have to look at him as she cleaned the library up. He recognized the bench as one he’d hidden a bottle in last year, but that was long gone. There was still a sketchbook stashed there, though, with a pencil stuck between its pages. He was out of practice enough for it to be frustrating, but he had time, and he spent it drawing from references he found in the books around him.

“Grantaire?” It wasn’t the first time Cosette had said his name. He knew that even as this was the first time he was aware of hearing it. 

“Sorry, what?”

“I’m heading to dinner. Are you coming?” She looked at him expectantly.

One day in the house, not even really speaking to anyone, and she already assumed he was going to family dinner. He could. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, impossible. But…

But all the people who would notice his reappearance, and whisper. But he was down to one meal a day at this point, and he’d already eaten it. But he had only barely been brave enough to come to the library.

“No, you go ahead.”

“Okay.”

He did leave the library not too much later than she did, though. The light left the library early at this time of year, and he couldn’t see his reference images clearly enough to draw. He flipped the sketchbook closed and stuck it back down in the bench where he’d found it.

Grantaire didn’t try to catch the end of dinner. He left the house, but he didn’t go back to the barn either.

He went up the steps to the office over the garage.

His only intention was to sneak a look, spend a few minutes breathing the air in the room where Enjolras slept. He didn’t think Enjolras was really going to be there.

Yet there he was, lit by the golden flicker of a solitary candle, squinting at some papers spread out on the floor around him.

Typical. The only person here with a desk and he worked on the floor.

He was so beautiful that it hurt somewhere under Grantaire’s ribcage. His was a face meant to be seen in this halting half-dark, skin caressed by the warmth of the fire, his hair shining with it. He looked like a painting by a Dutch master.

This was a mistake. Grantaire shouldn’t have come here. Just the sight of Enjolras made him so thirsty he could drink all the liquor he ever had, right now, and still not be drunk enough to forget.

He must have made a noise, a stuttered breath or creaking footstep, because Enjolras looked up. “Oh,” he blinked. “You’re here.”

“I am.” Grantaire had to force his lungs to breathe enough to speak. “I can go, if you’re working.”

“No.” Enjolras’s voice was soft. “Stay. I’ve lost the light anyway.”

Had Grantaire taught him that phrase? It seemed unlikely it had been part of his political education.

Enjolras’s tongue darted across his lips. “I hoped you’d come in. It’s cold out there.”

“It’s possible I improperly considered the potential long-term ramifications of my course of action,” Grantaire mumbled.

Some part of him had always known he couldn’t stay in the barn forever. It wasn’t a sustainable plan; it hadn’t really been a plan at all. Getting some space had seemed like a good idea at the time. And afterward, what, he was stubborn. That wasn’t exactly news.

Enjolras smiled. “Well, you’re here now. You can come sit down, if you want.”

He’d already spread out his bedding for the night. It wasn’t the same as sitting on the bed of the boy you had a crush on in junior high, pretending to be normal, but it was damn close. Excruciating.

Grantaire didn’t pause before crossing the room to take the offered seat.

A worried crease formed between Enjolras’s eyebrows. “You’re limping.”

Was he? He’d forgotten. But it warmed his insides to think of Enjolras noticing, and caring. “It’s an old injury, not a new one.” He stretched the offending leg in front of him and rotated the ankle. “See? No blood or anything.” Then, quieter, because he regretted turning it into a joke: “It doesn’t hurt, it just gets stiff in the cold sometimes.”

“What happened?”

“It’s a long story.”

Enjolras tilted his head, inviting. “I like long stories.”

Grantaire laughed. “I know you do. But it’s kind of a bummer, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He shifted into a more comfortable position. “So, you know how I used to dance?”

“You still dance.” Enjolras frowned. “Don’t you?”

“Not, like, waltzing with Jehan in the drained pool. Classical dance. I got into a special school and everything. Very competitive, only serious dancers need apply. Like half the girls had starred in the Nutcracker already.” He swallowed. “My first year there, I was practicing my jumps, and I felt something pop in my hip. It didn’t really hurt, but I knew something was wrong right away. It turns out I tore the cartilage.”

Enjolras winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t fun. I was out of commission for weeks, and when I came back, it was like I was years behind everyone else. Because while I was on crutches, my peers were gaining strength and skills, and I was losing mine because I couldn’t practice. One of my teachers told me I should quit because I’d never get it back.”

“So… you quit?” Enjolras guessed. “And that’s why the limp, because you hurt your hip?”

“Oh, no,” Grantaire shook his head. “I worked really hard, and I got strong again, and I kept going. And when I was seventeen, this regional dance company auditioned the senior students to fill the ensemble for Swan Lake, and they picked me. Actually, they gave me a featured role. It doesn’t sound like much, but it was a big deal at the time. I mean I was basically, like, one of the stars of the fucking ballet.”

“You were the prince in the fairy tale?”

Grantaire smiled softly. “No, I was Rothbart. The evil sorcerer. He wears an owl mask for most of it. The director said I didn’t have potential as a romantic lead.”

“Ouch,” Enjolras said again.

“I didn’t care that he said that at all,” Grantaire confessed. “Because it was a paying gig, and it was a lot better than anyone thought I’d do, and it’s actually really rare for a kid that age to skip the ensemble roles. The teachers at the academy were so excited, they were telling everyone. And I was excited, too. I was going to move to Lyon for three months and live in an apartment with other dancers. It was a small company and the pay wasn’t much, but it was the first step of what everyone was sure was going to be a brilliant career.” He paused.

“So what happened?”

“The week before rehearsals started, my mom drove me down to Lyon to help me get moved in. She was, like, so proud, but also kind of terrified, because, you know, I was a kid leaving home, and she wanted to do it right.” Grantaire blew out his remaining breath and took a new one. “About a block away from the apartment, our car collided with a bus. And that was my dance career, over before it began. My surgeon described my ankle as ‘crushed.’ There’s a titanium plate and eight screws in there.”

Enjolras was looking at the ankle, as though he’d be able to see the damage through the dark, through his clothes, through the years. “You were lucky not to be hurt worse.”

“Well, my mom died, so it didn’t seem that way at the time.”

Enjolras sucked in a breath. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut. “We don’t have to dwell on it. It doesn’t make me special. Everyone’s got a dead mom now. Combeferre has two.” This wasn’t making it better. He never made anything better. The only game he knew how to play was a losing round of _how miserable can I make everyone around me?_

“No, it was callous of me. I shouldn’t have assumed.” Enjolras produced a glass of water from somewhere to his left and offered it to Grantaire. “Would you like a drink?”

A soft snort of laughter escaped before he could contain it. “Sure, why not? Let’s live dangerously.”

Enjolras handed him the glass and then poured himself one from the pitcher. He closed his eyes as he drank, his dark gold lashes kissing his cheeks.

Grantaire made himself look away. He tried to look away whenever Enjolras did something arrestingly beautiful. As a result, he’d looked at a lot of non-Enjolras things in this office over the last year.

“I love you, you know,” Enjolras whispered.

“Don’t do that,” Grantaire said.

The thing that hurt the worst was that he always managed to convince himself that this time was going to be different. He always managed to forget it was coming, up until the second that it did.

“Don’t do what?” Enjolras asked, his voice rising to a more normal volume. “Tell you how I feel about you?”

“You don’t.”

Enjolras nodded, as though accepting this premise. “Thank you for telling me how I feel, then. I must have been confused.”

Grantaire turned his head away. “I don’t want your pity fuck.” A lie.

“Oh, is that what I’m offering?” For someone who loved an argument so much, Enjolras kept his voice remarkably cool and level. “I wasn’t aware.”

“Yeah, it’s the end of the world and you want to do one last good deed, and I get it,” Grantaire said. “But I’m not a prop in your melodrama, so, thanks but no thanks.”

“It’s not the end of the world.” And, oh, how curious, that _this_ was the part when Enjolras’s tone started to bite back.

“Yes, it is.” Grantaire’s head bobbed. “How else do you explain the walking dead everywhere and the dwindling supplies and all the grim determination?”

Enjolras drew a deep breath. “Is that what you call it? Because I have to be honest, you’ve got the grim part down, but I don’t get a lot of determination from you.”

He huffed a shocked laugh. “Nice, that’s really nice. Is that your love talking?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

It stung, really; if Enjolras had put his mind to it, he could have destroyed Grantaire in an argument. He just didn’t care enough to.

Enjolras’s hand brushed against his. “But it’s not the end of the world. We’re building a new world here. And we’re safe. I wish you could feel that too.”

Grantaire jerked his hand away. “I know you think you’re being kind, but you’re not. It’s cruel to me, and it’s cruel to all of them, to give them hope. We’re all going to die here. We’re just pet rats you’re keeping in a cage so we die later than sooner.”

“You’re just saying that to be hurtful,” Enjolras replied. “I know you don’t really think that.”

“No, I really think that. That’s why I said it.”

“If that’s what you thought, you wouldn’t have volunteered to go out for medicine. You wouldn’t have wanted to prolong their suffering if you didn’t think it mattered.”

Grantaire sighed. “If that’s what you want to think that was, I can’t stop you.” He pulled his legs in and stood up. “Thanks for the water. I’m going to go.”

“Don’t go,” Enjolras pleaded. Still sitting on the floor, looking up at him, Enjolras looked less powerful than ever.

Grantaire hated it. “What, you think we’re going to sleep together now?”

Enjolras stood, too, regaining his height advantage. “No, I think I’m going to go.” His voice was more confident than it had been since Grantaire got here. “I want you to stay here. I want you to be safe. But I agree. We can’t be here together. So I’m going to go into the house and stay with Combeferre, and you’re going to stay here.”

They stayed there, eyes locked on each other’s. Grantaire heard his heart pounding and felt like he might be sick.

“Well?” Enjolras asked. “Do you agree?”

He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded.

“Good. Thank you.” Enjolras’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Good night.” He crossed to the door, three strides of his long legs, and he was gone.

Grantaire dropped back to the bedding, which smelled of Enjolras, and cried himself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I am BACK on my BULLSHIT, baby. This chapter has EVERYTHING: weird emotional content, physical disability, a lengthy diversion for no particular reason, several details I have meant to work in since like chapter 2, enough pining to open a Christmas tree farm. Plus it's about twice as long as any of the others, which... yeah, it makes sense given what I know about myself and what my bullshit is.
> 
> I made a tiny edit to a detail in previous chapters that I messed up and nobody probably noticed but just in case someone, someday, does notice, I fixed it. I'd promise it won't happen again, but I don't take any notes, so it very well may. I promise only not to change any major plot points behind you.


	11. poésie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan only knew of two effective methods for dealing with the kind of stormy mood he was now in. He could write a poem about it, or do something nice for someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I told you Enjolras was up and you got all excited but when I sat down to write it seemed incontrovertibly true that Jehan was going now and Enjolras needed some space to open up to me, so he's coming next time and I'm sorry I lied to you.
> 
> CW: some gender stuff but there's no transphobia and only very light blink-and-you'll-miss-them references to dysphoria, and I think... that's it? OH, no, also CW for some drug use and slightly more mediumcore sexual content than before. Lol I forgot about that.

“Hey, check it out,” Montparnasse said, motioning Jehan over. “I think it’s ready.”

Jehan bent over the tray of glass jars. “How do you know?”

“Experience.” Montparnasse grinned. “You wanna try some?”

“Can we do that?” Jehan asked. “Isn’t there, like, a process?”

Montparnasse unscrewed the lid. “Let’s call it quality testing. Come on, live a little.”

When Montparnasse wanted someone to do something, they usually did it. Jehan wanted to be an exception to this, but was sadly typical, which was why twenty minutes later the two of them were smoking the first joint of the new marijuana crop. It was cold to be standing around the back of the greenhouse, but this just gave them the excuse to stand a little too close together and share body heat along with the joint.

It felt like a teen movie, Jehan thought, as he blinked up at Montparnasse like a kid with a crush and Montparnasse pretended not to notice. Skipping class to do drugs with the bad boy. Jehan had never acted this way in school. He’d been busy trying not to attract the wrong kind of attention. Montparnasse even had a motorcycle jacket. Jehan didn’t know if there had ever been an actual motorcycle to go with it, but it was cool anyway. Hot, really.

“I heard you’re on the planning committee for the new year thing,” Montparnasse said.

He’d remembered. Jehan felt pleasantly floaty with the attention. Although that could’ve been the weed kicking in. “We are putting a soiree together, yes.”

Montparnasse raised an eyebrow. “Give me the inside scoop: do you think we’ll have booze this time?”

“It doesn’t seem likely.” Jehan thought about trying to explain why not, but issues of empathy weren’t Montparnasse’s strong suit. Better just to let the earth lie fallow than to take on a battle he couldn’t win, if discretion was the better part of valor, anyway.

Jehan passed the joint back to Montparnasse, who finished it off. Jehan felt a brief pang of discomfort; he’d have shared that, if it had been in his hand. Oh, well. He was on a pleasant enough high without it. It just would’ve been nice to be offered.

“Want a quickie?” Montparnasse asked, as he stomped the embers out.

It was nice to be offered that, too. “Do you have a condom?”

Montparnasse’s smile was slow and amused. “Of course I do. Who do you think you’re taking to?”

Jehan shivered. It wasn’t from the winter air. He reached for the strap of his overalls. “I’m going to start taking my clothes off, and you need to be fast enough to keep me from getting cold.” He typically preferred to blow Montparnasse than deal with the whole ordeal of undressing and navigating his body, but it was very cold to be kneeling on the ground.

“Deal.” Montparnasse’s hands were hot as they slid under his shirt to help him remove it. “Sick tattoo.”

Jehan had had the sacred heart of Jesus inked on the flesh of his own chest a few years back. He wasn’t particularly religious, despite years of convent school and his grandmother’s dearest hopes, but it was a hardcore image. Plus, it distracted from the scars. “Time ticks onward, and with it entropy increases.”

“What does that mean?” Montparnasse asked, having moved on to unbuckling his own belt.

“It means I’m getting cold, so fuck me already.”

Montparnasse laughed. “You’re weird.” He pressed down on Jehan in an intense and, yes,  _ warm _ kiss, then hoisted Jehan up to brace him against the wall of the greenhouse.

It hurt. But he didn’t mind that. Pain reminded him he was alive. What he did mind was the direction in which Montparnasse’s left hand was creeping. “Not there,” Jehan said, and redirected to a more acceptable spot. 

Some of his past partners had been weird about that kind of thing. They wanted to apologize too much, or they just got nervous and stopped having a good time, which made it harder for him to have a good time too. Montparnasse wasn’t like that. One of his chief virtues as a sexual partner was how little he cared.

Jehan didn’t even have to fake orgasms with him. Once Montparnasse came, he was done. Today that took a couple of minutes, and then Jehan was refastening his overalls as Montparnasse zipped up.

“That was fun,” Montparnasse said. “I wonder what’s for lunch today?” He walked off toward the house, leaving Jehan behind.

Jehan clicked the last buckle into place and sighed heavily. The sex was exciting, but there was always kind of a letdown when it was over and he had to go back to waiting for the next opportunity. He didn’t let himself keep looking after Montparnasse as he walked away, though. Too much of a cliche. Also, it was really quite cold out with the drying sweat on his skin. Next time he’d try to arrange an indoor rendezvous. 

He shuffled around the corner and caught up short when he almost ran into Bahorel. “Oh, hi,” he said, suddenly conscious of how disheveled he must look. He rubbed the back of his neck and smiled.

Bahorel didn’t smile back. “Is that who I think it was?”

“Did you think it was Beatrice Portinari?” Jehan’s face felt stretched too thin with the smile, so he decided to drop it and keep walking.

Bahorel caught his arm, not hard, but he stopped anyway. “Hey. Talk to me.”

“Why, so you can slut-shame me? It’s not any of your business.” Jehan took his arm back from Bahorel’s grip. Bahorel let him, obviously. The pen was mightier than the sword but the arm of someone who wielded a sword beat the arm of someone who wielded a pen, every time. He put his hands to his hair and tried to straighten it out.

“I’m just worried about you,” Bahorel said. It was the quietest Jehan had ever heard him speak. There was something in that, maybe, about the power of smallness. It definitely made Jehan feel different from when someone yelled at him.

“Don’t be,” he said, as lightly as he could manage. “I’m a grown adult. I can make my own choices.”

“I know that, but-- have you been smoking?”

Jehan stepped backward. “It was quality testing.” Hearing Montparnasse’s rationalization come out of his mouth, though, he didn’t like it.

“Jehan,” Bahorel said. “You can’t do that. I don’t want you to get in trouble--”

“Then don’t get me in trouble,” he said. “Because there wasn’t any risk of that before you got here.”

He left, before Bahorel could say anything else. The hypocrisy-- the astounding, no,  _ staggering _ hypocrisy-- of Bahorel getting that paternalistic tone over a little casual sex and some technically-not-illegal weed smoking. As if the two of them had not once smoked opium together at university. As if Bahorel had not had an affair with the wife of his moral philosophy professor. As if Jehan had done  _ anything  _ wrong, which he hadn’t!

Jehan only knew of two effective methods for dealing with the kind of stormy mood he was now in. He could write a poem about it, or do something nice for someone else.

He came up with an idea for something nice first, so he went to the kitchen. It was a downtime for the cooking team, and only Azelma was there. That was fine; Azelma was a kindred spirit. They’d had sleepovers together as kids. Everyone thought he was a girl then, because he hadn’t told them any different.

He set the kettle to boil and put some dried mint from one jar and a few tablespoons of honey into a mug. Once his water was hot, he stirred it into the mug until the honey dissolved.

Musichetta was in the Heart, like most people. She was sitting on a cushion with a shirt in her lap, although it didn’t look like she’d been sewing it. Instead, her hands were idle and her head turned to look out the window. Bathed in the anemic light of late December, she looked like a biracial pre-Raphaelite maiden.

“Brought you something.” Jehan offered her the mug.

“What is it?” she asked, though her hand had risen automatically to take it.

“It’s just honey and mint, basically,” he told her. “Good for settling stomachs.”

She looked up sharply. “What do you know?”

Jehan shook his head. “I don’t know anything until you tell me. As for what I suspect, who can say? I just thought you might like it.”

“Well, thank you.” Musichetta licked her lips, which were looking dry. “And, since you mention it… I may be needing some help with clothes soon. I thought I’d check with you and Cosette about it, but I’m still not really ready to talk about why.”

“Cosette has an excellent sensibility and I’d love to work with her. Just let me know when you  _ do  _ want to talk about it, and we’ll figure out what you need.”

Musichetta lifted her thumb to her mouth and worried at a hangnail, before catching herself and tucking it back in her fist and setting the fist in her lap. “Will you have time?”

“I’m in horticulture now, and it’s winter,” he assured her. “The branches of my tree are barren. I have plenty of time.”

She nodded. “Thank you, again, then. I’ll try to talk to Cosette soon.” She sipped the drink he’d brought her. “This is nice.”

“Glad you think so! How’s Joly?”

“Still spending the day in bed, but he’s okay. Probably up and about again tomorrow. He’d love to see you, I’m sure, if that’s what you’re angling for.”

It seemed possible Musichetta was desensitized to Joly’s ailment at this point, because he did not seem especially okay.

“I’m fiiiiiine,” Joly said, but he seemed higher than Jehan had been at the peak of his weed high, which had sadly already passed.

Jehan turned to Bossuet, who was sitting beside Joly looking amused. “Is that right, or is he being brave?”

“Hard to say,” Bossuet said. “Combeferre was by earlier with something that was apparently very nice.”

“So nice,” Joly agreed. “Combeferre is the best. Except for you! You’re the best.”

“No,  _ you’re  _ the best,” Bossuet said, barely restraining laughter.

As a portrait of domesticity, they did make it look quite comfortable, for what it was. “Would you like a break?”

“Oh god yes,” Bossuet said, though his tone didn’t depart from its usual pleasantness. “What do you think, my love? A nice visit with Jehan?”

Joly smiled dopily. “I love Jehan.”

“Course you do!” Bossuet leapt to his feet. “Have fun, I’ll see you soon.” He mouthed  _ thank you _ to Jehan, who waved after him.

“You smell like pot,” Joly stage-whispered.

Jehan giggled. “Yeah, we got the first crop cured so we tested it out. Next time we’ll save you some, I promise.”

“Hey,” Joly said. “Hey, hey. You know what I heard? I heard you can sign. Is that true?”

“I know LSF,” he said, signing along with himself to demonstrate. “I’m a little rusty, so I’m probably not fluent anymore, but--”

“Awesome,” Joly sighed. “That’s awesome. I feel a lot better now, thanks.”

“Glad I could help,” Jehan said. “I brought a book, in case you were bored. I could read to you, since you can’t turn pages.”

Joly eyed him with interest. “What book is it?”

“It’s poetry,” he confessed. “But it’s poetry about animals, written by scientists who studied them. Scientifically accurate  _ and  _ beautiful.”

“That’s so cool,” Joly said. “Science is very cool. Even when it gets stuff wrong it’s kind of cool. Like, oh, you know all those studies from the seventies with the primates? Where they tried to teach them sign language and for while everyone thought it worked and then they decided actually apes can’t learn language? Well, none of the researchers were fluent. So, like, how could they teach a chimpanzee a language they don’t know? It would be like me trying to teach someone German. I know some words but I’d get the grammar and pronunciation all messed up, and I couldn’t tell if my student was getting it right or not. So in a very real way, have we even studied whether primates can learn language at all?”

“Maybe not,” Jehan agreed. “Maybe gorillas could sign better than I can, and we just don’t know because they had bad teachers.”

“Right, exactly!”

Jehan cocked his head to the side. “Gorillas really need equity in their education initiatives.”

Joly was asleep when Bossuet came back. “I’m glad you were here,” he said. “I needed to stretch my legs and eat something, and I hate to leave him alone. Was he okay?”

Jehan nodded. “I wore him out talking about gorilla school.”

Bossuet nodded along. “Would they bring little bananas in their lunches? That would be so cute.”

“I have it on the highest authority-- by which I mean Joly told me-- that apes don’t actually eat bananas.”

Bossuet hugged him. “You’re the best friend in the world.”

Jehan didn’t always like physical contact outside of sexual situations, but this was okay. Bossuet had a very soothing, nonthreatening energy. Actually, Musichetta had that, too. That must be what Joly was into.

“You can reclaim your title if you have any easy ideas for punching up a party,” Jehan said. “We’ve got a few things laid away for the year-end event, but I want it to be magical. We’ve outlasted the year, you know? That’s an accomplishment.”

“Courfeyrac’s on that, too, right? There are some string lights up in the attic that could be good for some ambience. He knows where they are.”

“Thanks!” Jehan had ever been to the attic, which now began to seem like something of an oversight. Attics were quiet and dusty and sometimes had bats in them, which made them excellent places for someone like him, who had worn novelty skeleton-print leggings three times a week for an entire semester, until finally his professor had asked whether he had other clothes. 

Finding Courfeyrac wasn’t hard. Like most people, he was in the Heart where it was warmest. There was a circle of people near the fireplace sharpening knives.

“Take me to the attic,” Jehan said. 

Courfeyrac blinked up at him. “O… kay.” He set aside the knife he’d been sharpening and got up. “Is there any particular reason for this excursion?”

“It’s party planning business,” Jehan told him.

They climbed their way to the attic over the North Wing. “This is it,” Courfeyrac said. “I’m not sure if there’s anything useful up here, but--”

“What wondrous raptures await!” Jehan gasped. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this stuff was up here?”

“I… don’t know? It’s mostly junk.”

Jehan pulled him over to the far corner of the attic. “Look! That is not junk, that’s exactly what we’re looking for!”

Courfeyrac looked skeptical at first. That was all right. Jehan was used to having to win people over, and Courfeyrac was not usually very difficult to convince.

“Bossuet told me there were lights up here, but he didn’t tell me there were ribbons and stained glass snowflakes and paper lanterns!” He jumped up and down.

Slowly, Courfeyrac’s lips curved into a smile. “Okay, yeah,” he said. “I see it. We could drape this garland over the mantel so the candles sparkle, and then--”

“Yes,  _ yes _ ,” Jehan said. “I knew you’d get it. All right, we don’t have much time to get everything ready, so we’re going to have to start now.

As they pulled items from the attic storage, Courfeyrac’s voice matched Jehan’s in excited pitch, and he was glad, like he always was, that every day with his friends was an adventure to behold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> portrait of the artist as a young-ish woman, frantically googling "does france have semesters" so I can write a throwaway anecdote (they do)
> 
> will I ever again write something set in my own sphere of knowledge? until such time as it comes to pass, I will simply have to keep a research tab open. (it is probably really telling which details I am willing to be vague about and which ones I desperately need to get Dr. Google, phD's input on)
> 
> anyway Jehan is a gender nonconforming transmasc nonbinary person who uses "he" pronouns and I am open to criticisms of this from transgender people *only*; transphobes can bite it. thank you for your time.


	12. la croyance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras climbed the stairs to his office. There wasn’t anything else for it. One of the planks creaked beneath his step and he caught himself wincing. He felt a flicker of anger at himself. He wasn’t sneaking. Shouldn’t he want to make noise? Wouldn’t it save everyone some dignity if he announced his approach? His next step was deliberately firm.
> 
> It shouldn’t matter, anyway. No matter the hour at which he’d returned to the office over the garage, he’d always found the bedroll stowed neatly under the desk, with only the slightest alterations suggesting anyone had been in the room at all.
> 
> That made it quite a surprise when, after he steeled himself to nudge the door open, he saw a mound of blankets on the floor, in the shape of a person curled into a ball.

“How are you settling in?” Enjolras asked. “It’s been, what, two months?”

“Three,” Marius said.

Enjolras smiled. “Three. That’s right. Has everyone been treating you well?”

“It’s been great. Courfeyrac’s been a real help.”

Enjolras wrote  _ Courfeyrac _ in his notes and underlined it. This wasn’t necessary, but it gave him something to do other than maintain eye contact with Marius, which he found a little exhausting. “And the work? Are there any placements you felt a special calling to?”

“I liked working in the library.” 

This was going to be difficult. Cosette had been clear he couldn’t be of use to her. “The library?”

Marius nodded. “Yeah, it reminded me of better times, I guess, to be around all the books. I had an internship with a publisher when I was in school.”

Interesting. He hadn’t taken Marius for the type.

Marius leaned forward on his stool. “Do they need help in the library?”

He fought to keep his face neutral. “Unfortunately, there’s not a permanent position there.”

“Oh.” Marius chewed his lip. “Well, then, no, I don’t think I feel really strongly about anywhere else.”

“I see.” Enjolras set his pen down. “Let’s try it another way, then. Think what jobs you absolutely do not want to do again, and we’ll start there.”

“Well, I’m not very good in the kitchen,” Marius confessed. “And I don’t think the greenhouses are for me, either.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “Not a fan of plants?”

Marius fidgeted. “No, it’s just Montparnasse is a little intense, isn’t he? I mean, he’s fine-- but, you know--”

He  _ did  _ know. There was a whole clique of them, Montparnasse and Claquesous and Babet and Guelemer: hard to work and live with, though often enough not outright defiant that it was hard to address. But he didn’t make a habit of discussing ongoing disciplinary situations with third parties. “We always need more cleaners,” Enjolras said. “Bahorel and Feuilly in maintenance have plenty of work to share. And of course there’s laundry and clothing repair, if you sew.”

“I could learn?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No, no. Not unless you’d like to. The goal isn’t to make this as hard as possible on you. The livestock team could use help with the feeding and cleaning the pens. It isn’t glamorous, but--”

Marius shook his head. “I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”

Eagerness to accommodate did not a good fit make. “Let’s keep you on basic janitorial for now, and re-evaluate in a few weeks.” In the meantime, he’d slip a word to Courfeyrac about checking in with Marius. He might be less nervous with someone he considered a friend, and more honest.

Marius thanked him profusely for taking the time and bowed and scraped his way out of the room. Only when he was gone did Enjolras allow himself to press his hands over his eyes and sigh.

He usually had these meetings in the office over the garage, but he’d arranged to meet with Marius in a walk-in linen closet instead. It was cramped and close for comfort, although he’d dragged two stools up for them to sit on. He was trying to stay out of the office in the mornings.

It wasn’t fair to blame Marius for his mood. He hadn’t been sleeping well. He could be irritable when he was tired. His ex-boyfriend had pointed that out, many times. This was not the reason he’d become an ex, but it probably ought to have been.

Enjolras lifted one of the stools and carried it back down to the Heart. Then, he turned around and did the same with the other one. He was realistic about his virtues and did not list among them particular physical strength, and his back and shoulders had begun to ache slightly by the end of the second journey. He accepted this occasional soreness as part of living a life of service.

Once the linen closet showed no signs of having been appropriated as a meeting space and he had no further tasks to complete, he closed the door behind him. He’d taken as long as he could, and lunch was laid out on the table when he passed through. Enjolras wasn’t hungry, but he tried not to make a habit of passing up meals when they were offered, so he grabbed a sandwich for later and wrapped it in a napkin. He didn’t like to linger on missing the way things used to be, but bananas had been good for this purpose, and it was a shame he couldn’t get them anymore.

He climbed the stairs to his office. There wasn’t anything else for it. One of the planks creaked beneath his step and he caught himself wincing. He felt a flicker of anger at himself. He wasn’t sneaking. Shouldn’t he want to make noise? Wouldn’t it save everyone some dignity if he announced his approach? His next step was deliberately firm.

It shouldn’t matter, anyway. No matter the hour at which he’d returned to the office over the garage, he’d always found the bedroll stowed neatly under the desk, with only the slightest alterations suggesting anyone had been in the room at all.

That made it quite a surprise when, after he steeled himself to nudge the door open, he saw a mound of blankets on the floor, in the shape of a person curled into a ball.

His breath stuttered in his chest. He closed his eyes and smoothed his exhale. Then, he backed up a step to return to the other side of the door. 

It was too late. The blankets shifted. The person under them sat up, blinking in the ray of light cast from the open door.

“Sorry,” Combeferre said. “I needed a quiet corner for a minute.”

Enjolras shook his head. “It’s okay. I was just surprised.” He could certainly understand needing to take a break. “I’m sorry I interrupted. I can leave.”

Combeferre slumped against the wall. “No, I’m awake now. I probably have to go soon anyway and make sure no one’s looking for me.” He didn’t get up, though.

Enjolras took that as his cue and closed the door, but with both of them inside. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Combeferre’s hand dropped abruptly from where it had been rubbing at his face. “I have a headache, that’s all. It’ll pass.”

“Again?” Enjolras frowned. That had been happening more than it should, the last few weeks. “Maybe you should take some time off.”

Combeferre snorted. “Where do you propose I get that time from? With Joly down, I’m kind of indispensable.”

Enjolras sat down beside him. “How’s he doing?”

“He’ll be fine, I think. He doesn’t seem worried. It’s just not something you can rush.” Combeferre sighed. “I’m fine too, I promise. It’s only eyestrain.”

“Eyestrain?”

Combeferre nodded. “Since I had to get my old glasses out, you know. It’s an old prescription, I can’t see as well. Or, I’m working harder to see, anyway. I get tired faster.”

“You’re wearing old glasses?” Now that he looked directly at them, Combeferre’s glasses did look different. Bigger on his face, or a different shape, or darker, or something.

“My other pair had an accident. It was a while ago. You didn’t notice?” Combeferre laughed. “Of course you didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“These frames are green. Everyone but you noticed the first day.”

Enjolras worried at his lower lip. “No. I mean… they hurt you.”

Combeferre shrugged. “Well, there isn’t really anything anyone can do, so. It didn’t seem to serve a purpose to complain.”

It was the practicality he’d come to expect from Combeferre, but colored with a fatalism that sat badly in Enjolras’s stomach. “You can tell me when something’s bothering you.”

“You hate when you can’t solve a problem. I can handle it.” 

“I don’t have to solve it. But you don’t have to be alone with it, either.” Enjolras realized he was still holding the sandwich he’d wrapped in a napkin, and he set it in front of them. “Have you eaten?”

“Thanks.” Combeferre unwrapped the sandwich and picked up half, nudging the other half toward Enjolras. “Do you know what it is?”

“No idea.” Enjolras took a bite. “Cheese and… pepper jam?” 

Combeferre hummed in approval and bit in too.

When the sandwich halves were gone, Combeferre dropped his head to Enjolras’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, I retook my shooting test. I passed. Madeleine witnessed.”

“I wasn’t thinking about that,” Enjolras said, though he was relieved to hear it. The guard schedule would have been a mess if he’d had to take Combeferre out of it. 

“You were going to think of it later,” Combeferre said. 

He reached one hand up to stroke Combeferre’s hair. “Does this help?”

“Yes.”

Enjolras chuckled despite himself. “Don’t lie to make me feel better.”

“It’s nice,” Combeferre hedged. “You can’t fix this, though.”

“I know.”

Combeferre sat up. “You know what? I do have a problem you can help with.”

“You have my attention.”

“Musichetta’s pregnant.”

Enjolras stilled. “What?”

“Yeah,” Combeferre sighed. “That’s been the general reaction so far.”

“Who knows about this?”

“Chetta, Joly, Bossuet. Me, obviously. I think she’s told a couple of other people, but not many. They’re keeping it quiet for now, but we need to start thinking about where they’re going to live. They can’t stay in the Yellow Room with a baby.” Combeferre rubbed at his face again. “They’ll need some privacy. And their own sink.”

Enjolras exhaled slowly. “Shit.”

Combeferre pressed against him.

“We can’t ask someone to leave one of the buildings without telling them why,” Enjolras continued. “We’ll have to wait to talk to the families until Musichetta is ready. How long do you think we have?”

“A month or two and she’ll have trouble hiding it, as best I can tell. But that could be wrong. We’re only guessing.”

Enjolras resumed rubbing Combeferre’s head. “Is there anything you need for the medical care?”

“Ten years of experience and a lab of diagnostic equipment,” Combeferre said. “Nothing you can provide. If she’d been pregnant two years ago, she would have had ultrasounds and blood tests and a career midwife and access to a NICU. We have prenatal vitamins and a book.” He gestured vaguely. “It’s a good book, but I confess I’m feeling its limitations at the moment.”

There wasn’t anything to say to that.

Combeferre shrugged. “Studying is probably where I got this headache. I’ve been reading all morning and I don’t think it helped.”

Enjolras gave him a squeeze. “Do you have to get back right away?”

“I left a note and a talkie so anyone at the infirmary door would know to radio if they needed me,” Combeferre replied. “I should go back eventually, but I don’t need to hurry.”

“Good. I think you need to finish your nap.”

Combeferre gave a quiet laugh. “Will you stay?”

There was so much to do. But this was Combeferre, who gave so much more than he asked for in return. “Of course.”

Once Combeferre had laid back down, Enjolras followed suit. He stretched out at Combeferre’s back, one arm curled over his warm rib cage. He didn’t cuddle like this with just anyone; the list was short. And Combeferre was at the top of it, save only one.

It was hard for Enjolras to sleep in the communal bedrooms. He liked the idea of it, but the reality provided a lot of sensory information. All the sounds of breathing and shifting and snoring and whispering made his brain itch, and he laid awake in the dark for hours, no matter how tired he was. He’d thought at first he’d acclimate to it, but he hadn’t. That was why he’d come to stay by himself over the garage last year: necessity. The last week back in the house had been a trial.

So it was no great surprise that he fell asleep, too.

He dreamed.

In his dream, he was in the lavender bedroom in which he’d spent his first seventeen years. There was a book open on his lap, but when he tried to look at the pages, the words shifted on them and he couldn’t read the text. He looked out the window instead. The view was a field he’d never seen before, and he walked right out into it.

There was a woman standing in the field. “The light and my salvation, and I have no fear.”

“That’s a prayer,” dream-Enjolras said. “Why are you saying a prayer?”

The woman looked at him, and her face changed. Her mouth turned dark at the edges and split wider than it should have been able to, and her eyes blackened and ran into her skin. “Help me,” she gasped, reaching for him. “Please, help.”

He tried to jerk away, but her arms were too long now. Her gray fingers curled around his arm. He opened his mouth to scream, but the breath sucked out of his body before he could.

Then the woman was whole again. She smiled at him and her smile was normal. “Thank you,” she said.

“I didn’t do anything,” dream-Enjolras said.

“You will,” the woman whispered.

Suddenly he was awake again, on the floor of the office. There was a loud voice coming through the speaker of the walkie-talkie next to him.

“Combeferre? Are you there?”

Beside him, Combeferre was still blinking muzzily, so Enjolras grabbed the talkie off the floor. “What do you want, Courfeyrac?”

“Enjolras, hi!” Courfeyrac greeted him. It clearly wasn’t an emergency. “Is Combeferre with you? I need him.”

Combeferre held out his hand, and Enjolras handed him the talkie. “Yes, Courfeyrac?”

“You’re needed. Hughes scraped his knee, and because I am not a real doctor, I am not permitted to put a bandage on it.” 

Combeferre’s mouth curved into a small smile. “I’ll be right there.” He switched the talkie off, then stood and replaced it on Enjolras’s desk. “Duty calls.”

Enjolras waved to him from the floor. “See you at dinner?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Combeferre said from the door.

After a few hours of puzzling over the housing crisis, Enjolras went down to dinner himself. Combeferre was not only there but had saved him a seat. He crossed to it, but before he sat down his eye was drawn to a strange shape at the entryway.

Joly hadn’t been down to dinner all week. It was a good sign, then, that he was here now, even if he was leaning heavily on the cane he held in one hand.

But Enjolras couldn’t focus on the happy surprise of seeing Joly at dinner, because Joly’s other hand was holding onto Grantaire.

Enjolras sat down. He reached for the pitcher of water and poured himself a glass. He drank it. He poured another.

“You good?” Courfeyrac murmured into his ear. He put his hand on Enjolras’s knee under the table.

He nodded, and set his glass down half-filled.

It had been a long time since Grantaire came to dinner. He was thin. He wasn’t supposed to be thin. But otherwise, he looked good. Being fully lit and surrounded by friends suited him. Enjolras didn’t understand why he didn’t do more of that.

Something Joly said made Grantaire tip his head back to laugh. They were too far away to hear, but Enjolras knew the sound anyway: warm and deep.

“Staring,” Courfeyrac whispered.

He looked away. “What’s the meal?”

“It’s a take on raclette, I think,” Combeferre said.

“Sounds great.” Enjolras passed his plate. 

Under oath, he would not have been able to testify what the food tasted like.

When the napkin basket was passed down to collect dirty laundry, Enjolras remembered to put the napkin from his sandwich earlier in there too. 

It wasn’t his night for after-dinner cleanup, but they were usually glad for the help if anyone volunteered. He wanted to do it. He’d lost productive time to his weird dream this afternoon. Sleep wasn’t wasted time; he would have corrected anyone he heard say that, but it was more difficult to apply that to himself.

He got a broom and dustpan to sweep under the table. Children tended to lose scraps. He bent to reach the broom across. There was a large crumb he could probably reach, if he just got the right angle--

He felt a hand on his left shoulder blade.

Enjolras straightened.

Grantaire’s hand retreated to his jacket pocket. “Can we talk?” he asked.

Enjolras tightened his grip on the broom handle. “I’m in the middle of--”

“I’ve got this.” Courfeyrac appeared at his side and eased his own hand onto the handle. “You can go.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. He relinquished the dustpan to Courfeyrac as well, then turned to face Grantaire. “What is it?”

Grantaire’s eyes darted around the room. “Can we go somewhere? Private?”

“Yes,” he said, a hair too quickly. 

It wasn’t how he’d imagined escorting Grantaire up the stairs to what was, essentially, his bedroom. He led the way. Grantaire followed at a distance that was scrupulously maintained. Aside from the shoulder touch to get his attention, there was no physical contact.

They were silent until the door was closed behind them.

Enjolras leaned against the desk, putting the maximum amount of space between them. “So? What did you want to talk about?”

Grantaire looked at the floor. “Um…”

Enjolras felt his jaw clenching and forced it to loosen. “That’s okay. I can go first.” He took a deep breath. “I owe you an apology for the other night. I shouldn’t have said what I--”

“No, God, no,” Grantaire brought a hand to his forehead and rubbed it violently. “I’m the one who should apologize.”

“I know you don’t like it,” Enjolras said. “I took advantage, and it wasn’t fair.”

Finally, Grantaire’s eyes met his. “You didn’t take anything. Don’t be stupid.”

“Will you let me say what I need to say?”

Grantaire’s mouth twitched into something like a smile. “I’ve never been able to stop you yet.”

“Okay,” Enjolras sighed. “Just let me finish, one time, and this will be over.”

Grantaire held his hands out, palms up, ceding the floor.

“I was wrong to talk to you like that. I’m promising not to do that anymore. It doesn’t change how I feel, and it doesn’t change what I want. But I’m not going to ask you again, not until you ask me first. If that means I wait forever, I wait forever.” He swallowed. “And I’m truly sorry, for before. It was a moment of weakness, and I shouldn’t have made that your problem. I won't do it again.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows and gestured back to himself, questioning.

“Yes, it’s your turn now.”

“A moment of weakness?” Grantaire asked.

“I do have them, you know.” Enjolras shifted.

Grantaire huffed quietly. “Far be it for me to hold it against you. I’m sorry, too. It had been a hard day and I was kind of at my limit. I went over the line.” He held up a hand. “I did mean what I said, but I didn’t have to say it like that.”

Enjolras felt his face soften. “I accept.”

“I don’t know if I do. I’m going to have to let you know after I’ve processed it.” Grantaire licked his lips. “But I think in order to do that, we both need some space.”

Enjolras’s mouth opened, but Grantaire cut him off before he could argue.

“Not barn space. Emotional space. That’s why I’m going to give you your room back.” He shuffled. “Thanks for letting me stay here while I figured some things out, but I can’t live here. That’s not fair to you. I’m going to move in with Éponine. She’s been asking for months, and I’ll be safe there, and you can sleep in your own bed.” Grantaire exhaled. “Yeah, that’s basically it. I wanted to let you know you can have your room back.”

Grantaire turned to the door, then stopped. He turned to look back over his shoulder, freckled face peeking from beneath his unruly hair. “I hope you don’t. Wait forever.”

“I hope that too,” Enjolras murmured. “Good night, Grantaire. Be well.”

“Night.” Grantaire held up a hand in parting, and then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how much time passes between these sections? however much I feel like, that's how much. don't think about the timeline too hard or it will become apparent how little planning I've done.
> 
> I'm real hype about the next Grantaire chapter which can't happen until spring so I've got some winter to fill in. I think it's new year next, and probably Cosette will be our hostess, but I've led you wrong before, haven't I?
> 
> anyway this chapter was kinda hard because I kept wanting to describe things Enjolras wouldn't have noticed or understood and I just have to... hope... that the meaning is clear enough. I hc Enj here as somewhere on the autism spectrum which is part of what is driving how he never thinks things about what people's facial expressions mean, but I'm not sure I get to tag it since it didn't really come up (neither did a bunch of other stuff I intended to reach about his character and background, SO HARD because he didn't want to dwell or ruminate like I do, but I'll find ways to work in the parts that are important to me I guess). 
> 
> also I had to ("had to") write a freaky dream and that was a stretch of my abilities.
> 
> I think I am happy with the way it turned out and I hope you are too. Stay well, friends.


	13. la fête

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There, we’re perfect,” Cosette said, stopping herself from adjusting her sash again. She gazed at the reflection of herself and Musichetta in the mirror, trying to memorize it. It was the kind of thing she’d have liked to have a photograph of. They would have looked nice on Instagram.

“Papa?” Cosette called. “I’m coming in.” She’d learned to tell rather than ask. 

It was cold in his room. He never lit his fire as soon as he ought to. “Hi, sweetheart.” He closed his book and greeted her. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I pressed your suit.” She hooked the hanger she was holding over the doorknob to the en suite bath.

Her father chuckled gently. “Now, you spoil me. What do I need a suit for?”

Cosette smiled. “It’s the end of the year party. Everyone will be dressing up.” Dressing up meant something different than it used to, but her father would look nice in a suit. She knew this, because she’d ensured it by taking in the seams so it would fit him perfectly. 

“I don’t need a suit, my love.”

“I know,” she said. “I just thought you’d like it.”

“I love it,” he said, and held his arms out to her for a hug and a kiss. “What are you going to wear?”

Cosette pressed her face into his neck and inhaled. He smelled the same as he had the first time, when he’d carried her away from her wreck of a childhood, although his beard was grayer now. “My pink dress,” she said. “With the little gold sash.”

“The one I got you in Rome?” He was smiling as she drew back. “I’m surprised you didn’t make something new out of a discarded curtain.”

“I did, but not for myself,” she confessed. “Don’t tell anyone. It’s a surprise.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” he promised.

“My everything is safe with you.” Cosette rocked back on her heels. “Do you need anything else?”

Her father shook his head. “What else could I possibly need?”

“I can only guess, because you never tell me,” she chided. “But I have my own getting ready to do, so I suppose I’ll leave it for now.”

She headed downstairs. Most regular work shifts were cancelled today and tomorrow, leaving only the essentials. That kept plenty of people in work, guarding the perimeter or feeding livestock, not to mention all the preparation of food and space necessary for a party, plus the cleaning up afterward. Cosette figured her best chance of finding her quarry was to head to the Heart.

“Oh, I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Musichetta called from behind her. “Jehan really wants the decorations to be a surprise to as many people as possible.”

Cosette whirled. “Musi! I was looking for you, so I guess I don’t need to go in now. Are you busy?”

Musichetta fiddled with her apron. “I just finished with the cake, so I’m free for a bit. What’s up?”

“What are you wearing tonight?” Cosette bit her lip.

“I have that green shirt I like. I thought I’d pair it with the least-mended pair of pants that fit and call it the best I can do. Why?”

“Let’s get ready together. In my room. We can do each other’s hair.” Cosette did not need help with her hair. Cosette had been styling her own hair since she was too small to see in the bathroom mirror by herself. She’d been the only person she knew with hair like hers until Papa had brought her home and introduced her to his housekeeper. Toussaint had taken one look at the mess on Cosette’s head and crossed herself. Then, she’d gotten to work teaching Cosette how to make her hair beautiful and orderly.

Musichetta didn’t need help either, Cosette knew that. But it would be fun, wouldn’t it, to share space on purpose instead of out of necessity. The way girls did in movies before school dances, even though Cosette was twenty-three now and Musichetta even older. 

“Okay,” Musichetta said. “Let me get my things.”

Cosette grinned. “Meet me up there.”

She started heating water to fill the bath tub. She had a copper kettle over her fire for this purpose. It usually wasn’t worth it to heat a bath, but this was a gift. She cleaned herself in cold water while she waited, then wrapped herself in a robe and got back to work carting the kettle back and forth. 

She even added a few drops of lavender water to the bath. She’d used to iron her clothes with lavender water, when she could get it by the liter. Now, she sometimes spritzed a little on her pillowcase before bed. The scent was all she remembered of her mother.

She only had half a bottle left. It wouldn’t last forever. Nothing good did.

“Hey,” Musichetta called from the doorway. “Am I too early?”

“You’re perfect,” Cosette chirped. “I’ve got your bath almost ready.”

She saw Musichetta hesitate. “I don’t need…” But the siren call of a hot bath was too great, and she didn’t finish her initial thought. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know.” Cosette motioned her toward the bathroom. “Go on, sit down. I’ll just add this one last kettle of water and you should have enough to go on.”

Musichetta preceded her into the room and sat on the closed toilet while Cosette carted in the last of the water.

“It’s not as full as if we were piping it in,” Cosette apologized. “I hope it’ll do.”

“Of course it’ll do. I can’t believe you did this for me. It even smells beautiful.” 

Cosette pressed her lips together but felt her cheeks rounding into a smile anyway. “I’m glad you like it. I’m angling for the godmother position.”

Musichetta laughed. Like her voice, it was low and warm. “Honey, you have no competition.”

“Don’t tell me that, I’ll get lazy.” Cosette went to the door. “Take your time. I’ll be outside when you’re ready.”

Cosette dabbed her wrists and the back of her neck with lavender water. She looked at herself in the mirror. Pressed her lips together, then released them, watching them pink up with restored blood flow. She’d grown up wanting to be a classic beauty like Camille Rowe or Laetitia Casta. It had been a losing game; she wasn’t beautiful in that way, and never would be. Her was a beauty more like Aya Jones, or Noémie Lenoir, or…

Well, or Musichetta.

They didn’t look alike, not really. Cosette was used to scouring the faces of strangers, hoping to see a family resemblance. There wasn’t one between them; no serious observer would mistake them for sisters. Cosette’s skin was lighter, her curls tighter, her lips and eyes both wider. Musichetta was nearly half a meter taller. But they were unmistakably of a type: brown and curvy.

It delighted Cosette to see someone like Musichetta, to find her beautiful. She wished she could send a whisper back in time to herself, aged six, that she could be both dark and pretty.

Musichetta emerged from the bathroom loose-limbed and glowing. “That was so nice, Cosette. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m not done.” She motioned for Musichetta to join her on the edge of her mattress. “I’d like to do your hair, if that’s okay. Real fairy godmother practice.”

“Okay.” Musichetta was cautious as she settled down, wrapped in a towel. 

“Did you have ideas?”

Musichetta shook her head. “I usually leave it down. It gets heavy if I do too much to it. My arms get tired.”

Cosette smiled. “Great, then I’ll do what I want.” She set a packet of crackers on the mattress beside them. “In case you need a snack while I work.”

She took up her comb and some of her carefully-rationed pomade. “Tilt your head a little?” It took a moment to get her bearings. Her own hair had a slightly different texture, a different weight. Cosette wove the thick hair into a braid from the crown of Musichetta’s glorious head down to the nape of her neck. She tied it off there. The tails of Musichetta’s curly hair hung down her back, and Cosette took those in her hands and twisted up, until the mass of it was wound around itself in an elegant knot, just where the braid reached its end. She pinned it still, careful not to poke her friend.

She handed Musichetta a mirror and turned her around so the back of her head was reflected. “What do you think?”

Musichetta’s lips parted. One of her hands rose to pat gently at the twist of hair on her neck. “I look like art.”

“You are art,” Cosette said.

But Musichetta’s mouth was twisted in uncertainty. “Will it look okay with my outfit?”

“That means it’s time for my favorite surprise.” Cosette gestured to the open door of her closet.

“I don’t think your clothes will fit me,” Musichetta said.

“No,  _ look, _ ” Cosette said. She needn’t have. Musichetta was noticing at that same moment.

“What is that?”

Cosette danced around her and grabbed the hanger. “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t like it. I just thought, before we make you a maternity wardrobe out of scraps and start crocheting onesies, you might like one last thing that was just for you.”

Musichetta reached out to touch the fabric. “When did you find time for this?”

“It was easy.” Cosette shrugged. “Plenty of downtime in the library. It’s a simple design. And Jehan did some of the hemming for me.” She tilted her head. “Do you like it?”

Musichetta took the hanger from her hands and gently hooked it back over the closet door. She took Cosette’s hands in hers. “Cosette. I love it.”

Cosette brightened. “I made it from an old set of silk sheets. Joly helped me take measurements from your other clothes. It might not be an exact fit, but it shouldn’t be tight.”

“You gave up silk sheets?”

“I kept the pillow cases,” Cosette admitted. “That’s plenty of luxury for me.”

The dress had long sleeves and a draped neckline. The dark silver silk would look magnificent with Musichetta’s coloring, and the flowing skirt would reach halfway from her knees to her ankles, if Cosette’s measurements were correct. They usually were.

“I don’t know how I will thank you. Seriously.” Musichetta’s dark eyes were back on the dress.

Cosette laughed. “That’s easy. I already told you. I want to be godmother.”

Musichetta turned back to her, mouth set in a serious expression. “You realize I’m going to have to mess with your hair now, don’t you?”

Cosette’s hair was thicker, because of her curl volume, but she kept it shorter, just above her shoulders. Musichetta gave her a deep side part and braided the hair back from her face on one side, securing the tiny braid with a glittering gold barrette.

“Not as elaborate as what you did for me,” Musichetta pronounced, fluffing Cosette’s hair. “But I think you look very sweet.”

Cosette smiled at her reflection. Then she turned away from the mirror and wrapped her arms around Musichetta’s neck. She smelled like Cosette’s bath.

Cosette was enchanted. She’d never had friends at the convent school. Not real ones, anyway. Not like this.

“I can’t believe you made me a dress instead of yourself. Or Éponine,” Musichetta murmured into Cosette’s hair.

She was glad Musichetta couldn’t see her blush. “I have plenty of dresses. And Éponine will wear what she always wears.”

“Combat boots and ripped leggings?” Musichetta asked.

There wasn’t much in the way of makeup in the commune, but Cosette had rationed some tinted lip gloss and kohl eyeliner for this purpose. She’d used to be precious with her cosmetics, and would have found it gross to cross-contaminate-- possibly this had held her back with the convent school girls-- but this no longer seemed as important as sharing what she had. She watched Musichetta apply her makeup confidently and felt like a little girl watching a grown woman show her how it was done.

“You look beautiful.” Cosette took a step back. She grabbed Musichetta’s dress and then took her own out of the closet as well. “Let’s get dressed and head down.”

Seeing Musichetta in the metallic silk dress was everything Cosette had hoped it would be. The style was loose and forgiving of any slight body fluctuations, but the weight of the fabric meant it hung in shimmering folds around her legs and lay smoothly over the curves of her torso. She’d really outdone herself. It was gorgeous in a simple, elegant way that suited Musichetta, and in it she looked natural yet elegant.

Cosette had no such transformation for herself. Her own dress was coral pink lace over a silk lining in the same color, except for the sleeves, which came to the elbow and were only lace. It had a gold velvet ribbon which tied around her waist in a neat little bow. She’d had it a few years, but hadn’t worn it much. The trip to Rome she’d bought it on had been one of the last vacations before the world had changed forever. 

There wasn’t much use for a nice dress these days. She tended to rewear the same few outfits like everyone else. To do otherwise felt like rubbing in that she had access to so much of her old life, even if she had given away a lot of it. But then again, clothing people in her castoffs was its own kind of arrogance, wasn’t it?

Most people didn’t wear shoes in the house, unless they were working. This wasn’t an official rule, just a custom that had sprung up. It helped keep the house clean and preserve the shoes they had. It got cold to be barefoot in the winter, though, so they’d started knitting slippers. A lot of people would have special ones for the party. Cosette had a gold-edged pair for herself and one threaded through with delicate silver ribbons for Musichetta.

“There, we’re perfect,” Cosette said, stopping herself from adjusting her sash again. She gazed at the reflection of herself and Musichetta in the mirror, trying to memorize it. It was the kind of thing she’d have liked to have a photograph of. They would have looked nice on Instagram.

Musichetta squeezed her hand. “Let’s go down. I have to make sure everything made it out of the kitchen okay.”

After Musichetta split off toward the kitchen, Cosette continued toward the Heart on her own. Sounds echoing down the hall indicated that people had begun to gather already, although that didn’t prevent her from hearing a voice from inside a storage closet.

“--just because your friend’s boyfriend can’t--”

“ _ Shut up, _ ” Jehan hissed. “Someone will hear you.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“I thought you liked thinking someone might hear,” Montparnasse purred.

“Well…”

_ Oh.  _ Cosette startled and kept walking. Good for Jehan, she guessed. If that was the kind of thing he was into. 

She wished he could have been there to see her see his creation in the Heart, though. It was dazzling. He’d repurposed old holiday lights and tinsel and-- she suspected Feuilly’s involvement in this-- hung colored paper lanterns all around the room. There was a mirrored ball across from the fireplace and origami art dangling from the rafters. There were candles nestled into safe places around the room, and the lighting was dim but cozy, reflected enough in the mirrors to sparkle. The whole space had been transformed into a DIY winter wonderland, tessellated snowflakes very much included.

The dining tables and benches had been moved in to accommodate dining in shifts as the party began. Her father was seated already, involved in a discussion with the Inspector. She steered clear for now. There was kind of an intense vibe between Papa and Javert that she didn’t always enjoy being around.

Instead, she sat across from Éponine’s family. She and Gavroche were caught up in some kind of argument, so they didn’t notice her at first, until she said “this is nice, huh?”

“Cosette!” Azelma gasped in delight. “It’s so lovely! And you look gorgeous! I’m wearing the blouse you gave me, do you like it?”

It was dark blue with a high collar and slashes in the sleeves. “It looks much better on you than it ever did on me,” Cosette said honestly. She couldn’t see under the table what Azelma had paired it with, but she looked like a dream from the waist up, with her creamy complexion and that dark reddish-brown hair pulled into a high ponytail.

“If you say so,” Éponine cooed.

Cosette hoped her blush wasn’t too visible in the low light.

Éponine looked wonderful. She was wearing something Cosette hadn’t seen before, red and off one shoulder. It looked like it might have been a dress, but it was hard to imagine Éponine in a dress, so she probably had leggings on at least. She had a thick gold bracelet curled around one wrist and heavy dark eyeliner. Her hair was at the perfect level of buzzed, where it had grown in enough to look dark, which accentuated her white forehead and strong eyebrows.

Cosette could have eaten her up. If the night went well, maybe she’d get to.

“I made some of the snowflakes, Miss Cosette,” Bress volunteered. “Mine are yellow.”

“Yellow snow is snow someone peed in,” Gavroche muttered.

“ _ Gav _ ,” Éponine snapped in warning.

“My snowflake is blue,” Hughes said.

“You’ll have to show me after dinner,” Cosette told the little ones. “I want to see your beautiful artwork.”

Montparnasse sauntered into the Heart. Jehan wasn’t with him, and Cosette had just enough time to wonder why not before Jehan followed, tugging on his vest. 

She waved. 

Jehan bounded over. “Oh, Cosette! What do you think?”

“It’s amazing.” She tilted her face up and let him kiss her cheek. “I like your vest. Is that the green velvet I gave you?”

He put his hand on his stomach and rubbed against the grain of the fabric. “Yes. I took it apart. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind. I gave it to you.” It had been one of her formal gowns, once. It had a new life now. “Where’s Courfeyrac? I want to congratulate him too, I know you both worked very hard.”

“He’s around somewhere.” Jehan dropped his hand. “Make sure to say something nice about his hat. He’s terribly proud of it.”

A special effort had clearly been made with dinner, which included whole roast chickens that had been culled from the laying population earlier in the year and kept in the freezer until the time was right. The pièce de résistance, though, was a towering croquembouche decorated with delicate chocolate flowers. Musichetta beamed when it was brought in from the kitchen, and Cosette flashed her an approving thumbs-up.

Once the food was cleared-- except the croquembouche, which of course they’d keep picking at all night, and a few other snacks-- the party was ready to begin in earnest. Papa, Éponine and a few others carried the tables back into the dining room, and the benches were moved to the edges of the room. Combeferre settled at the piano and started playing a song she didn’t recognize.

Cosette played a little game with the children while they waited the reorganization out. They sat in a circle and tapped each other’s hands in a pattern until someone-- most often Bress, who thought it was funniest-- pulled their hand out of the way to interrupt the sequence. It wasn’t a game anyone could win, and it required no supplies and kept them entertained for entire minutes at a time. 

“Keeping Miss Cosette out of trouble, are you?” Éponine appeared near them with her typical quiet grace. She could be loud when she worked, and when they fucked in private, and when she talked, but when she moved, she barely made a sound. Her red garment had an asymmetrical hem, ending at her hip on one side and fluttering to knee-length on the other. Cosette still wasn’t sure if it was a dress or a top. Under it, she had on pleather leggings.

Cosette looked up at her and felt overwhelmed with-- something. She didn’t want to call it love, even in her head, but it went beyond lust. 

She was prevented from dissecting her feelings any further by the arrival of Courfeyrac. His hat really was something; he’d found a way to settle a glittery wreath around the brim of a top hat and it was shedding glitter all over the rest of him.

“There you are!” he exclaimed. “’Ponine, I have been looking everywhere.”

“You have not,” Éponine said. 

“Well I feel like I have,” Courfeyrac amended, without sounding as though he were conceding anything. He held his hand out to her. “May I have this dance, milady?”

Éponine twitched an eyebrow skeptically. “Only if you promise no funny business.”

Courfeyrac gasped. “In front of the children, mademoiselle? I am hurt, I truly--”

“Fine, yes, I’ll dance with you if you’ll shut up.” Éponine’s glance cut briefly to Cosette, a kind of rueful _what can you do?_ and Cosette smiled and waved her on.

“I like your hat!” she called after them, and Courfeyrac pumped his fist in victory.

They weren’t alone on the dance floor. Bahorel was leading Azelma in some kind of dangerous-looking tango. It didn’t go with the music at all, but their happiness was infectious.

“Coffee?” Musichetta offered. “We got the real thing, as a treat. Everyone’s staying up all night anyway.”

“All right,” Cosette said, and accepted a small cup.

Musichetta set the coffee tray down and watched her drink it. “Let me live vicariously through you, I can’t stomach even a sip anymore.”

Cosette smiled and tilted her coffee cup in cheers.

“My darling,” Bossuet said, holding his arms out to his girlfriend. “You look glorious.”

“You’ve said at least ten times,” Musichetta chided fondly.

“Can’t have done, I’ve barely seen you.” Bossuet shook his head. “Will you abandon your duties for one moment to spare me a dance?” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “It would make Joly very happy.”

“Well, how could I refuse such an offer?” She stood, the silver silk swishing around her legs. 

“I can take people coffee,” Cosette said.

“The coffee will be fine here. People will find it.” Musichetta told her. “You get to have fun too.”

Cosette didn’t know how to say that this  _ was  _ her having fun, so she didn’t.

She took a cup of coffee to her Papa. “Special treat?”

“Oh, why not?” he said. “Thank you, sweetheart.” 

She bent down for a kiss. “Nice suit.”

“Pretty dress,” he answered. “I don’t suppose your dance card has room to take your old man for a spin?”

“It absolutely does,” Cosette said. 

Their father-daughter dancing ended up incorporating several of the children, who flocked to Cosette as usual. As soon as she wasn’t a child anymore, it seemed she’d developed a knack for connecting with them. There wasn’t any secret to it, not really. She just listened to them. She knew how important that could be to someone small.

After a few songs, her Papa put his hand on her head and said “It’s time for me to go up, I’m afraid.”

“Want me to come?” 

He shook his head. “No, you stay at the party. Just come say goodnight when you head up. I’ll be awake.”

She watched him go with a pang of sadness. He was her best ally here, really. It wasn’t long before most of the young ones were packed off to their beds too-- the other people who unreservedly enjoyed her company.

Long ago, when she’d been worried about going to a new school, Papa had given her wonderful advice: if she felt lonely, look for someone else who was alone. She cast her gaze around the Heart. It didn’t take her long to spot Enjolras, in a shady corner, his hands wrapped around a coffee cup, watching the party happening without him.

Cosette crossed the room to him. “Are you enjoying the party?”

Enjolras smiled. “Very much.”

“Want to dance?”

He looked at her with something faintly resembling alarm. “No.”

“Come on,” she said.

“I’m very happy here.” He shook his head. “Grantaire dances, if you’re looking for someone.”

She suppressed a frown. Grantaire wouldn’t have been her first choice. It wasn’t that they didn’t get on, exactly. They just didn’t really have anything in common. But now it would be weird if she didn’t ask. “You look nice with that bow in your hair.”

Enjolras reached a hand up to his head. “Courfeyrac.”

Cosette giggled. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll get him back one day,” he said cheerfully. 

Grantaire was sitting next to Joly on one of the benches, their heads bent close, Joly’s cane leaning nearby.

Cosette waited a beat for them to notice her. “I heard a rumor you dance.” 

“I’m retired,” Grantaire shot back.

“You don’t have to keep me company all night,” Joly said. “I’m fine.”

“Hey, maybe you’re the one keeping me company, have you thought of that?” Grantaire nudged Joly’s shoulder.

Joly rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, Cosette, I wish I could tell you he was raised in a barn, but he only lived there as an adult.”

“If it makes you feel better, I told  Éponine no too.” Grantaire shrugged. “I’m gonna white-knuckle it out right here. But… it was kind of you to ask. Made me feel real welcome.”

The problem with Grantaire was she couldn’t tell whether he was being nice or being mean. “Okay.” She turned to go, and smacked herself into the chest of someone standing behind her. “Oh, sorry--”

“--totally my fault--”

“--no harm done.” She smiled. “Is that Jehan’s vest?”

Marius looked down at his green velvet vest and frowned. “No. Sort of. He has one, and he gave me one that matches. I wish it were black. In the dark it almost looks black, doesn’t it?”

“No, it’s a lovely green,” Cosette countered. “It used to be one of my dresses. Maybe this is a sign I should ask  _ you  _ to dance next.”

His face had gone an alarming shade of puce and his mouth was hanging open.

“Come on, man, help her out” Grantaire called from behind them, “the lady’s already been turned down, she’s going to get a complex.”

Cosette grinned through her embarrassment. “A dance would get us away the peanut gallery. What do you say?”

Marius looked like a frightened deer.

“Only if you want to.”

“I want to!” Marius’s ears turned red. “I-- I mean. That sounds nice.”

A sound suspiciously like laughter came from the bench behind them.

Marius wasn’t a bad dancer. He wasn’t good either. He didn’t step on her feet but there was something awkward about his movements. Bossuet had fallen four times already tonight, though, so it could have been worse.

“You’re in janitorial, right?” she asked.

“Uh huh.”

“Do you like that?” she pressed.

“Mmm.” Marius’s lips pursed thoughtfully. “It’s useful. That’s good. What about you, the, the library? The kids.”

“I like kids,” Cosette said lightly.

She let silence fall between them for the rest of the song.

As the final note faded out, he dropped his hands from her like she’d burned him.

Cosette forced herself to smile. “Thank you for the dance, Marius.”

Bahorel had joined in the music with his guitar for what could have been either a spontaneous or rehearsed set, but Courfeyrac spun her a time or two. Courfeyrac was fun.

The timing of the countdown to the new year was slightly arbitrary, since no one could be sure of the precision of their clocks anymore. But, as Jehan had happily babbled into her ear last year, that made it only slightly more arbitrary than trying to name time at all, so what did it really matter?

They counted in the new year and cheered. Cosette and Éponine hugged, and Cosette and Azelma hugged, and Cosette and Musichetta hugged, and Cosette and Jehan hugged, and Cosette and Courfeyrac hugged. The party would carry on, in a reduced way, after this; it was hard to imagine Bahorel, for example, going to bed just after midnight on the one night a year there was no curfew. But it was more fractured now, tired people filtering out to bed.

Cosette made herself one of them. Her face was a little sore from smiling and she waved goodbye to Courfeyrac and Bossuet, who stayed at the party, and Joly and Musichetta, who headed to their own bed.

Cosette didn’t go to bed. Not yet. She’d promised Papa she’d come see him, so she did.

He’d said he’d be awake, and he was.

“Bonne Année, Papa.”

“Bonne Année, my heart. Turning in already?”

“Yes.” She shifted in her slippers on the carpet. “But there’s something else I want to say.” 

Her father smiled at her softly. “You can say anything to me.”

Cosette took a breath. “I think-- I think I’m going to give up my room.”

His eyebrows creased. “Darling, you don’t have to--”

“I know.” She cut him off. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. I…” She swallowed. “I’m going to tell you a secret. Not like the dress. A big secret, and not really my secret to tell, but I think you’ll understand why I want to do this if I tell you.”

“All right.”

Cosette licked her lips. “My friend Musichetta, in the kitchen? She’s pregnant. She and her partners are going to have a baby. They’re going to need a place of their own, with a door and a bathroom that’s just theirs. I have that, and I want to offer it to them.”

“Where will  _ you  _ stay?”

“I thought-- if you wanted to-- I thought I’d stay with you. There’s room in here for another bed, and most of my stuff would fit in that closet you don’t use.” Cosette sat on the floor next to his bed and took one of his hands in both of hers, felt the callused skin of it that had always made her feel safe. “If you say no, if you really don’t want me to, I won’t ask them. I’m telling you first so we can talk about it.”

Papa sighed. “I’m not saying no. It’s a big change, though.”

She shook her head. “I used to sleep on the floor of your room when I was little.”

“You’re not little anymore.”

“Even if I offer, they might say no. The stairs might be a lot for Joly every day, so maybe they’ll have a better option and not even want my room.” Cosette shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t know unless I try it. And I really think I want to try it. It seems like the right thing to do.”

Her father squeezed her hand. “I’m sure you know your own mind.”

“I do. And, when we first started, you wanted me to have my own room for safety. But I’m not worried about my safety anymore. We’ve lived here a year and a half and things have been good. I want to spread that goodness around as much as I can.”

“Sometimes you remind me so much of your mother,” he said. It jabbed in her heart like these infrequent reminders that he’d known her birth mother, and she hadn’t, always did. “I have no argument. If your friends can use the room, you’re welcome to move in here. You have my trust and my blessing.”

Cosette felt tears well up in her eyes. She launched herself onto him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Papa.”

“No thanks necessary. You’re a smart, kind person and it’s your decision to make.” He patted her arm gently. “But for what it’s worth, I’m very proud of you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. So much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at this point this zombie fanfiction contains large swathes of fantasy about "what if there was a disaster but during that disaster people loved each other very much and touched a lot?" and you know what? i stand by that decision.


	14. la gardienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éponine went around the back of the garage instead of going straight home. She was achingly tired, but more than that she ached for a moment alone before squeezing back into the pool house with her beloved, irritating family.

Guard duty was harder than usual the first week of the year. The extra activity caused by the all-night party had attracted the attention of their undead predators, and dealing with the crowding corpses had called even more to their door. It had been fun, for one glittering night, and Cosette in that pink dress had looked good enough to eat, but at a certain point Éponine started to wonder if it was really worth it.

Or, no. It was. It was worth it to remember what they were all fighting for. That was just a hard feeling to hold on to at five AM, on the ninth straight day of the perimeter being swarmed. Bahorel had spent weeks leading up to the party reinforcing potentially weak spots along the barricade, but that hadn’t prevented Éponine and Enjolras from having to put down several that had come unsettlingly close to breaking through.

Éponine didn’t enjoy shooting them. Bludgeoning was even worse. Part of her wished Gavroche could see it, just once, so he’d know what it was really like. Nothing like a video game. The bodies were real. They made wet, meaty noises when she hit them, and when they fell, they stayed on the ground to rot there, unless someone dragged them off to burn or bury.

At the conclusion of their shift on watch, Feuilly and Bahorel brought them the key to the arsenal. Enjolras took it and briefed them on the night-- seven kills, though he didn’t use the word kills because he never did. It brought some people comfort, supposedly, to reinforce the distinction, because the things they’d shot weren’t medically alive. Éponine didn’t see the point, but she let the moment pass without comment. She was better at that than she used to be, than she would have been without the kids to look after. Putting up with minor annoyances for the sake of a safe and stable home was a skill she’d quickly learned the value of.

The sky wasn’t even beginning to lighten yet, but after they’d locked the guns up, Éponine went around the back of the garage instead of going straight home. She was achingly tired, but more than that she ached for a moment alone before squeezing back into the pool house with her beloved, irritating family.

She pulled the crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pocket and tapped one out. It was a stupid luxury. She’d run out for good eventually. She tried to space her smoking out, so that would take longer, and also so she didn’t get hooked. She’d seen enough of the indignities of withdrawal to know she didn’t want that for herself.

The first drag was as relaxing as always. She leaned against the wall and exhaled smoke. The ambient darkness gradually grayed, hinting that the sun would come again soon.

“Éponine?”

She turned. Musichetta was coming around the corner. “Hey.” Éponine blew her lungful of smoke into the pre-dawn sky. “What’s up?”

A strange look came over Musichetta’s face and she took a step backward. “I was just out for a walk. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Éponine dropped her cigarette and ground it into ash under her boot. “Relax, I was almost done anyway. You don’t have to run off over that.”

“I wasn’t.” She was lying, but that was fine. It wasn’t the kind of lie Éponine felt like she needed to do anything about.

“Knocked up, huh?” She stamped her foot again, though the ash wasn’t glowing anymore. The movement kept her warm.

Musichetta’s head turned quickly. “Who told you?”

Éponine snorted. “Nobody. I’m the oldest of five. I know what it looks like.” Recoiling from cigarette smoke like it was sickening, that was one way it looked. “Speaking of which, Azelma will be thrilled. So be prepared for that when you tell her.”

“You’re not going to tell her?”

“Nah. Not really my business, is it?”

Musichetta’s suspicious mouth softened into the barest smile. “I guess not.”

Éponine shrugged and pushed off the wall.

“Headed to breakfast?”

“No, I’m beat. Going home to nap. I’ll resurface for lunch, probably.” She stretched her arms over her head. “I just wanted to wait until the kids were out of the house for the morning. Makes it easier.” There was no question of sleeping with noisy boys in the confines of the pool house. Better to stay up on purpose than to come all that way to her bed and snap at them for, basically, being kids. They’d lived through enough of that kind of thing without getting it from her.

Sure enough, the place was empty and she arrived to blessed silence. Azelma rose early to help with breakfast two days a week, leaving Gavroche to get the little boys up and ready for lessons. Considering he was fourteen and a total asshole, Éponine might have expected him to bitch about this more than he did. But he was great with their brothers, in much the same way that at his age she’d been a total monster except to little Gavroche.

Grantaire lived here too, now, but he disappeared for long stretches of time. She didn’t know where he hid out, and didn’t really care. She was too tired to wonder where he’d gone so early or when he’d be back. He was an adult, and he  _ would  _ be back. That was what mattered.

Éponine stripped her watch clothes and shoved them in the hamper to take to laundry later. She didn’t bother to pull anything else over her underwear before she curled under the blankets in her nest of liberated sofa cushions and slept.

When she blinked her way back to consciousness, the slant of light suggested it was early afternoon. Not too late to grab lunch if she wanted it, which she did. She tugged on a new outfit-- black, like most of her clothes, an oversize sweater and a pair of tights-- and set back out to rejoin the world.

There were croissants in the lunch spread, which was one of the perks of winter. They didn’t get a lot of pastry if the temperature was too high. Something about the butter, Azelma said, but Éponine largely tuned her out because she didn’t really care.

Having grabbed her allotment of croissants, plus some of the goat’s cheese the livestock crew produced and a handful of-- raisins? sure, why not?-- she made her way back outside. Éponine liked to be outside whenever possible. The air was brisk, but that just reminded her she was alive. 

Those on night watch were relieved from daytime duties, but Éponine took her lunch to the gazebo anyway, to check on the generator. The smell of fuel and the sound of the engine running were pleasant, in their way. She hoisted herself up on the edge of the railing and sat there, legs swinging, to enjoy her meal.

She had a view of the chicken coop from here. The birds stayed in the coop most of the day when it was cold, but there was someone sitting on the ramp. Éponine squinted. Was that…? Yeah. Marius. Funny. That wasn’t his work assignment.

She popped the last of her raisins into her mouth and hopped down to the ground. “Yo, what’s up?”

His head jerked up in her direction, and she saw that he had one of the chickens in his lap.

Éponine giggled. “What are you doing?”

Marius’s face flooded red and he looked back down at the chicken. “I like her company.” He stroked the side of the chicken’s neck. His fingers on the iridescent feathers were long and delicate. Pretty.

She sat on the ramp too, a little below him and the chicken. “I didn’t think they were that friendly.”

“They’re not at first.” He ran his knuckle over the bird’s head. “You have to get to know them, like anybody else.” He was so gentle with it. Éponine wondered what it felt like to be touched with that much tenderness.

“You could ask to work with the chickens,” Éponine said. “I don’t think anyone other than Bahorel really likes them, so I bet you’d get it.”

Marius shrugged. “Janitorial’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. Everyone hates janitorial.”

“It’s better than laundry.”

That much was true. Laundry without technology was a challenge, and with this many residents it was an every-day job. It was not a popular request for permanent placement.

“Work assignments aren’t punishment. If you like the chickens, you should at least ask to be put on a rotation.” Éponine kicked one leg long and braced herself with the rubber sole of her other boot.

Marius smiled. She hadn’t seen him smile much. One of his teeth was crooked, and it gave the smile an offbeat character. He was cute, she decided. He’d come a long way since the day she let him in the gate.

“Want to pet her?” he asked.

“Does she bite?”

“Not if you stay away from her head,” he clarified. “Just go with the grain of the feathers, not against.”

Cautiously, she stretched a finger out to the chicken’s back. “Soft.”

“She’s my favorite,” Marius said. “I call her Empress Joséphine."

A burst of laughter erupted from Éponine’s mouth, which caused the chicken to give a startled squawk. “Do  _ not  _ let Combeferre hear you say that, for your own health.”

“Why?”

She shook her head. “Not many fans of empire around here. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“I do.” Marius set the chicken down. “My break should probably be over. I’m supposed to be cleaning the floor in the Heart today.”

“My condolences.” Éponine accepted the hand he offered to help her up, though of the two of them she was probably more structurally sound.

“Any special project you’re going back to?”

“Nah. I’m night watch this week, so I get special loafing privileges.” Éponine grinned. “See you around.”

Back at the pool house, lessons were over for the day and Azelma was off-duty, so the space was full of bodies and voices. Even Grantaire was home, instructing Azelma in some kind of swing dance move. When he spotted her, though, he dropped his hands from her sister’s shoulders.

“Welcome back, stranger.” He said.

Éponine rolled her eyes. “Rich, coming from you.” Bress barrelled into her legs and she rested her arms around his thin shoulders. “Hey, kiddo.”

“‘Ponine, look!” Hughes, at nine, was already a little old for Bress’s enthusiastic hugs, but still wanted to show her everything. Today what was in his hands was a drawing of a large butterfly. “R showed us.”

“That’s beautiful,” she said. “Bress, do you have one too?”

Bress released her legs and ran over to pick up his own drawing. Éponine made all the appropriate appreciative noises. She was mostly going off what her teacher for maternelle moyenne would have said. It seemed to work so far.

“Did you tell R thank you?”

The little boys chorused their thanks, and Grantaire, looking uncomfortable, took a bow.

“That’s co-parenting, babe,” he whispered in her ear.

She slugged him, but not hard. Honestly, she was glad to have another pair of adult hands. And the kids loved him. Even Gav, which was kind of a miracle.

Now that she thought about it… “Where’s Gavroche?” she asked.

“He’s helping build the new fire pit,” Azelma said. “Bahorel asked if it was okay and you were asleep so I said yes.”

Éponine tilted her head. Hard labor, the potential to light something on fire. It might satisfy his delinquent urges. “Cool.”

She let the little boys pick out spots on the wall of the pool house to hang their new pictures. Bress seemed like he wanted to keep his at first, but Hughes wanted to give his to Éponine for the former storage closet where she and Azelma slept, and Bress chose to follow suit.

“Where did you get the paper?” she asked Grantaire as she used some thumb tacks to stick the two butterflies on her wall. 

“There are a lot of books with blank endpapers,” he said. “Your girlfriend is very forgiving if it’s for the kids.”

Éponine shushed him. “Tease me all you want, I’ve given up on that, but not when my siblings are home, okay? Because if they start asking me about my sex life, I’m going to make sure you get asked a lot of questions you don’t want to answer either.”

Grantaire waved a hand. “Oh, Azelma is all over that. Our little swing-dancing lesson? Only happened because I needed to change the subject after we ran into Enjolras earlier.”

They talked around it enough they both knew the shape of things, but it was rare for the man’s name to come out of Grantaire’s mouth. He preferred, she guessed, to hold it in his heart like some kind of holy secret. “Ran into… how literally?”

“Not literally at all,” Grantaire sighed. “He waved at us from across the room and I turned a hundred and eighty degrees and walked out the way I came.”

Éponine chuckled. “That would provoke a question or two, yes.”

“Don’t you start,” he said sourly. “You’re my one ally.”

“Oh, hush. You have at least two allies.” Three, counting Enjolras. Which she knew Grantaire wouldn’t, but that didn’t make it less true. “Hold the paper still while I tack the corners.”

“Butterflies are psychopomps,” Grantaire said.

Éponine looked out the corner of her eye while she fumbled with the tacks. There weren’t any clues in his body language. “Um, okay.”

“It’s Greek,” he explained. “They’re spirits that guide the souls of the dead to the Underworld.”

“Morbid, but okay. Did you teach this to my kids?”

Grantaire shook his head. “No, no. If you want them to have a pagan religious upbringing we should tag Jehan in.” The picture securely fastened to the wall, he stepped back. “I just think it’s nice. Considering.”

It was too soon to say if either of the boys had any artistic sensibility, but there was a world of difference between seven and nine, in terms of fine motor control. Éponine didn’t care. She loved them both.

“It is,” she said. “It’s nice.”


	15. la croissance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musichetta sat on the edge of the mattress nearer the fireplace. There was a fluttering movement in her belly, and though it didn’t feel like anything on the outside yet, she rested her hand against her side. “Just what is your daddy doing, hmm?”
> 
> The banana baby wasn’t really a person to her yet, but she was practicing speaking to it just in case. It mostly felt like she was talking to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little sweet bite this time and we'll see what flavors come up next. i think there's some salt coming but don't hold me to it.

The room was one thing, but a whole closet to themselves was excessive. Musichetta crossed her arms-- her forearms couldn’t quite rest comfortably on top of her belly,  _ yet _ \-- and surveyed the shelves. All three of them could easily fit their wardrobes on one of the shelves in Cosette’s closet. Their closet. It didn’t feel real yet.

Their clothes would have all fit on one shelf, but that would look pathetic. She decided to put her own things on the top shelf. After all, she was the tallest. Yes, the top shelf would do nicely. Although Bossuet was next to her in height, she put Joly next so he wouldn’t have to bend over, and Bossuet beneath his. That left several shelves for baby things, once they had some.

“Delivery!”

As the only able-bodied member of the triad, at least for the moment, Bossuet was in charge of carrying their personal effects from the Yellow Room and communal bathroom to their new private quarters upstairs. Not that the boxes were that heavy; they didn’t have much to move. Musichetta could have done most of it herself with only a few extra trips. But he’d insisted. She was glad she’d let him insist. He was having the time of his life.

Even now, slightly out of breath from climbing the stairs, he had a huge grin. “Where do you want this?”

She peered over the edge of the box. “Bedding? We may as well put it all on the bed. It’ll be cooler up here than it was downstairs.” They’d upgraded to a real mattress, which Cosette had insisted on leaving behind for them while she moved something smaller into her father’s room. Musichetta was grateful for the added cushion and height, as her body grew less comfortable and graceful. Probably better for Joly, too, though with the stairs it was hard to know if he’d feel any better.

But then, so much of the future was hard to know. Musichetta preferred to deal in practicalities.

She shook out the bedspread and laid it on top of the mattress. Maybe the mattress should be closer to the fireplace, to keep Joly warmer. She nudged it experimentally with her foot.

“Let me get that.” Bossuet swooped in with a peck to her cheek and picked the mattress up at one end to scoot it. He dropped it a few feet from the hearth. “Better?”

“Hmm.”

Bossuet frowned. “Not better?”

Musichetta tilted her head. “How close do you think is too close to the fireplace?”

“I’m moving it back.”

She laughed. “It’s a question. I’m asking your opinion!”

“My opinion is I’m moving it back,” Bossuet huffed. “Part of the way.”

“I just don’t want to set a fire!” Musichetta protested, but they were both laughing.

Bossuet thunked the mattress down again. “I don’t want you and little Chou to get hot.” 

Out of love for him, she refrained from pointing out that the baby was not yet the size of a cabbage. According to the baby book she’d borrowed from the library, the baby was more likely around the size of a banana. “Please, that’ll be Joly’s side. He’s the one most likely to get cold.”

“We’ll have to put the baby’s bed on that side,” Bossuet said. “Babies can’t regulate their own temperature.”

“What has Joly been telling you?” Musichetta crossed her arms. “It’ll be late spring before the baby’s here. We won’t need a fire.”

He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and tucking his head against her neck. “We might.”

She rested her cheek against his smooth head. “We don’t even have a bed for the baby. Why don’t you worry about that first?”

“Um, actually.” He bit his lip. “Hold that thought for a minute.” He kissed her cheek and then released his arms from around her. “I’ll be right back.”

Musichetta turned her head to follow him as he dashed off toward the stairs. “You won’t make it back in one minute!”

“Five minutes, then!” Bossuet called without turning back to her.

She sat on the edge of the mattress nearer the fireplace. There was a fluttering movement in her belly, and though it didn’t feel like anything on the outside yet, she rested her hand against her side. “Just what is your daddy doing, hmm?”

The banana baby wasn’t really a person to her yet, but she was practicing speaking to it just in case. It mostly felt like she was talking to herself.

When she heard the sound of someone thudding up the stairs, she called “It’s been longer than five minutes!” She didn’t care, not really, but Bossuet liked to be hassled a little. It kept him grounded.

“Sorry!” he shouted back, in his cute lilting voice. “Joly wanted to be here too, take it up with him.”

Joly did not like to be hassled, so instead she held her arms open when the pair of them appeared in the doorway. 

Joly crawled across the mattress to nuzzle against her. “Place looks good.”

“Looks better now that you’re here,” she cooed. “I missed you.”

Halfway through kissing him, Musichetta realized her boyfriends hadn’t come alone.

“Knock it off, kids,” Bahorel said, sounding bored. “We have important gift business. I don’t want you getting distracted by lust.”

“What is that?” Musichetta asked.

Joly bounced on the mattress. “Yes, yes, show her.”

Bossuet motioned for Bahorel to set his cargo down on the floor.

“Behold,” he said. “Your baby’s first cradle.”

It was more of a box than anything else. But considering the wood for it could have been used to shore up defenses or fuel a fire, it was clear how precious even that simple design was. The outside was painted with purple and aqua swirls. Settled into the bottom was a thin makeshift baby mattress.

“Do you like the colors?” Joly asked. “They asked me to pick, and I thought of the curtains you had in your old apartment, remember? But we can repaint it if you don’t like it.”

“I do. Remember the curtains.” Her voice sounded faint. “Whose idea was this?”

Bossuet shifted. “Um, sort of Enjolras’s?”

“ _ What _ ?” Musichetta asked.

Joly jumped in. “He was saying, you know, about that Baby Box program we ran back in school? How it was a shame there wasn’t a dresser drawer still in good shape to make something for us.”

“And then Bahorel said we could do something even better,” Bossuet added.

“It’s not  _ not _ like a dresser drawer,” Bahorel conceded. “But a little more stylish, I think.”

“Is… is it okay?” Joly looked up at her. “You’re not saying anything.”

Musichetta burst into tears.

This had been happening more often lately. As much as she liked to think of her mind as an unassailable thing, separate from the chaos of her body and the broader world, it wasn’t. The hormonal changes of pregnancy had her at their mercy. She’d never been much of a crier before, but tears came easily to her now.

All three men were looking at her in alarm.

She waved her hands. “No, no, it’s lovely. I’m sorry. I’m just overwhelmed, I guess. I can’t believe you thought of it first, and went to all the trouble.”

Joly nudged her shoulder. “We were thinking about how unfair it is all the pressure is on you. A lot of that we can’t change-- the baby lives inside you, you’re the one who’ll give birth to them, and, and probably feed them.”

Musichetta grimaced. The logistics of formula-feeding after the fall of global civilization made breastfeeding a better option if at all possible. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

“But we can handle some stuff!” Bossuet said. “Like moving us into new rooms and getting a bed for the baby. So you don’t have to worry about everything, and you know you’re not alone.”

“I already knew I wasn’t alone,” she sighed, reaching to grab his hand. “But thank you. All of you. Who helped with this?”

“Bahorel took the lead with carpentry,” Joly supplied.

Bahorel flexed.

“I helped,” Bossuet added. “And Cosette did the mattress, with input from Joly about safe sleep, and she’s doing a bunch of sheets to go with.”

“Jehan did the painting, under my artistic direction.” Joly’s brow furrowed. “I may have been more of a hindrance than a help, to be honest. But he didn’t kick me out.”

“He thought about it,” Bahorel muttered.

There were still tears on her face, but Musichetta laughed. “They say it takes a village to raise a child, but how many children have a village like La Republique, ah?”

“They’re a very lucky banana,” Joly agreed.

Musichetta laughed harder.

“You know, I don’t say this lightly, but you’re pretty weird.” Bahorel kept his tone conversational and even. “Can I go back down and tell Jehan it was a success? He’s probably composing dirges to his artistic talent right now.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re released,” Bossuet said, not taking his eyes off Musichetta. “Close the door behind you, will you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks at calendar* *looks at page count* *looks at you, gentle reader* 
> 
> You know... we don't have to talk about it.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me. I have Big Plans and I hope you're still around to find out what they are.


	16. l' érudition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The spring equinox is our major holiday here,” Feuilly said. “This will be our third one, and it’s really starting to feel like a tradition. We added observing the new year because our first winter was so hard to get through, but we really go all out for spring. Plus, that’s when Enjolras gives his speech.
> 
> Enjolras had given a lot of speeches since Marius arrived last fall. He couldn’t think how to say that without being impolite, so he didn’t say anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for alcohol abuse and mild social anxiety

Marius rapped his knuckles against the doorframe. He miscalculated the force of the knock, though, and it barely made a noise. He bit his lip.

Feuilly didn’t look up. 

Marius took a fortifying breath and tried again. This time he overcorrected and the resulting bang caused Feuilly to startle. “Uh, sorry.” Marius stuck his offending hand behind his back and shook it a few times to dispel the ache from hitting the door so hard. “I’m not early, am I? I can come back.”

“No, no,” Feuilly assured him. “I’m glad you’re here. Have a seat.”

The dining room was one of few places with any real furniture left, so that was where Feuilly had repurposed a workbench for the evening lull. Hardly anyone was in the dining room at this hour, preferring to congregate in the Heart if they congregated at all before dinner. They had it to themselves for now, which was better and worse. Fewer people watching meant Marius had fewer people to embarrass himself in front of. But being alone with someone also meant more intimacy, and that made him nervous too. Feuilly had offered to teach him, but they didn’t really know each other that well. Courfeyrac said he was nice, but Courfeyrac said that about everyone.

Marius sat next to Feuilly, as he was motioned to do.

There were numerous tools lying on the table, and the pack they had come from was unfurled across the surface. 

“So, you’ve never done any leatherworking before, right?”

Marius shook his head. “I was never much for using my hands, really. Before.”

Feuilly smiled faintly. “Then let’s start at the beginning.” He picked up one of the instruments from the table. “This is a blade I like. If there’s a knife you like better, that should be fine, as long as it’s sharp enough. I sharpen every time I start cutting.” He set it down gently and indicated a collection of thick needles. “The needles are special, so I keep them separate from the sewing stuff. Same with thread. I’ve got something a little heavier-duty for this kind of thing.”

“Should I be writing this down?”

“If you want to.” Feuilly showed him the next tool. “This is a groover, which can help keep your stitches straight. Next to it is a spacer, which will show you where your next stitch should go, so they stay even. Those aren’t necessary, but it makes the finished product look a little more professional. Same with the beveler, which rounds off the edges so they’re not so raw.”

Marius examined them, although their shapes didn’t mean anything to him yet. “What kind of stuff can you make?”

Feuilly hummed. “It depends on how much hide we have-- we tan our own, from the goats-- and what people need. Belts and satchels mostly. I made the pack I keep my tools in.”

“Really? That’s cool.” Marius ran a fingertip along the edge of the roll-up pouch.

“I’m trying to figure out shoes and gloves, but that’s more complicated. I haven’t got it right yet.” Feuilly frowned. “Even some little slippers or something, you know? But that’s still experimental. Cosette’s talked to me about re-covering some of the paperback books in the library, so they’ll last longer.”

“You can do that?”

Feuilly shrugged. “I’m sure there are tricks I’ll have to learn before I’m ready for that project, but I don’t see why it would be impossible.”

Marius gaped. “Wow.”

“I used to hand-paint fans and sell them to tourists. I’m used to looking at challenges as opportunities for creation.”

“Painted fans?”

“Sure. I could do all the standards: Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame, Louvre, Arc de Triomphe. Not much of a living, but I liked it all right.” Feuilly picked up one of his tools-- the groover?-- and began running it over his current project, keeping it flat on the table so Marius could see. “Are you looking forward to your first spring equinox with us?”

The spring equinox. The planning committee for the party had been formed at the most recent meeting. “New Year’s was nice,” Marius hedged. The spring equinox seemed like a bigger deal.

“The spring equinox is our major holiday here,” Feuilly said. “This will be our third one, and it’s really starting to feel like a tradition. We added observing the new year because our first winter was so hard to get through, but we really go all out for spring. Plus, that’s when Enjolras gives his speech.”

Enjolras had given a lot of speeches since Marius arrived last fall. He couldn’t think how to say that without being impolite, so he didn’t say anything.

Something must have shown on his face, though, because Feuilly laughed warmly. “It’s a special one. We call it the State of the Union. I think that was a joke when Courfeyrac first said it, but it stuck and here we are. It’s basically our founding anniversary, plus a celebration that we’ve made it through the winter. Enjolras works really hard on it. It’ll be beautiful, you’ll see.”

Marius thought of Cosette in her pink dress at New Year’s and didn’t doubt  _ something  _ would be beautiful at the spring equinox.

“Hey.”

The voice didn’t belong to Feuilly. It didn’t belong in the room at all. Marius couldn’t say why, but he felt a sinking horror in his belly.

“I did something,” Grantaire continued. He stood in the door-- leaned, really-- looking flushed and upset.

Feuilly’s head snapped around with a singular focus, but his voice was calm and even as he said “What did you do?”

Marius admired that. His own heart was pounding with panic.

Grantaire didn’t answer with words, but lifted his arm. From his fingers dangled an empty plastic bottle.

“Fuck,” Feuilly whispered. “How much was there?”

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire’s eyes looked glazed. “‘M sorry.”

“I know. I know. But this is important. Please. How much did you drink?”

Grantaire held his other hand up to the bottle, close to the bottom.

Beside him, Marius felt Feuilly relax fractionally. “Good, that’s good. Can you come sit down?”

Grantaire squinted. “‘M not allowed.”

“It’s okay,” Feuilly told him. “We’ll pack the tools away, won’t we, Marius?” Feuilly started grabbing his leatherwork supplies and shoving them into the pack with far less care than he’d shown at any previous point. “I’m going to get Combeferre,” he added in an undertone to Marius. “You stay with him.”

Marius didn’t figure he had a choice. He nodded.

After some more urging from Feuilly, Grantaire slumped onto the bench across from Marius. He looked terrible. Perched on the edge of his own seat, Marius watched him droop as Feuilly swiftly left the room.

“Why’d you do it?” he blurted.

Grantaire looked up, eyes watery and red-rimmed. “Huh?”

He licked his lips. “The isopropanol. Why’d you drink it?”

Grantaire sniffled and shrugged. “It was there.”

“Oh.” Marius looked down at his lap.

A groan. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t be all-” Here he made an exaggerated sad face. “‘S not that deep. Saw it, took it, drank it. ‘S what I do.”

“Okay.” That still sounded pretty sad to Marius, but now didn’t seem like the time to get into it. “Hey. Hey! I don’t think you should put your head down like that. Try to stay awake until Combeferre gets here.”

“‘Mbeferre,” Grantaire slurred, but he reeled back into something resembling an upright position. “Don’t want C’mbeferre.”

Marius didn’t know what to say to that.

“Don’ tell Enjolras,” Grantaire pleaded. “Don’t tell him.”

Marius tried to keep his face neutral. This had never been a skill of his.

Grantaire sat up straighter. “You don’t like Enjolras?”

“I don’t  _ not  _ like him!” Marius protested. “He’s just kind of… scary.”

Grantaire waved a hand. “Nah.”

Marius dodged the hand to avoid getting hit by the empty isopropanol bottle. Grantaire seemed to have forgotten he was holding it.

“‘S a kitten,” Grantaire continued. “Gotta get to him. Has his quirks.” 

Getting to know Enjolras didn’t seem to have helped Grantaire much. But that was a private thought, one for Marius to keep to himself. Occasionally he did catch those before they exited his mouth.

“We kissed once,” Grantaire sighed.

Marius startled. All thought of circumspection deserted him. “You  _ did _ ?” He had difficulty imagining it. Kissing Enjolras would be like kissing an electric eel.

But Grantaire was nodding, and he looked serious. “Last summer. I’ve been running away ever since.”

Marius’s face crinkled with confusion. “I thought-”

“You thought what?”

His voice was down to a whisper when he said “I thought you weren’t afraid.”

Grantaire snorted. “Not of him. Of me.”

Marius opened his mouth and closed it again.

Grantaire sprawled across the surface of the table, looking less like a living human than like a broken doll.

This time Marius let him.

He’d never been so relieved to see anyone as he was when Feuilly came back with Combeferre in tow. 

The plastic bottle dropped from Grantaire’s grip onto the floor, where it bounced twice before rolling to a stop.

“Isopropanol, Grantaire, really?” Combeferre asked, sounding exhausted more than angry. He peered into Grantaire’s face. “How much was it?”

“D’nno,” Grantaire said. “Two shots, maybe.” He held his fingers apart to show approximately the same volume he’d shown Feuilly.

“Not enough to die,” Combeferre pronounced. “Enough to feel terrible, which I assume you already do. Could you get him a glass of water, please?”

This last was addressed to Feuilly, who darted off to the corner where there was always a pitcher of water and a stack of cups.

Combeferre reached for Grantaire’s pulse, which Grantaire didn’t fight. “Have you vomited?”

“Not yet,” Grantaire chirped. He seemed livelier now that Combeferre was here for him to rattle.

“I’d advise against it, if it can be avoided.” Combeferre said. Having concluded his examination, he leaned back and sighed.

Feuilly brought the water.

“Thank you,” Combeferre said, and thrust the glass at Grantaire. “Small sips. Stop if you feel sick.”

Grantaire took the glass but didn’t drink. “You can’t tell him.”

“We can discuss that when you’re sober,” Combeferre said evenly. “Drink the water. Once you can walk, I’ll go with you to the infirmary for the night.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Behind his green glasses, Combeferre’s brown eyes when he opened them were worn out. “Thanks for getting me. And thank you for staying with him, Marius. If he’d wandered off, I don’t know what we’d do.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” Marius said, though of course it wasn’t  _ not  _ a problem, was it? It just wasn’t a problem that was mostly his.

“Hey, I owe you a replacement leatherworking lesson,” Feuilly murmured. “If you still want to learn.”

“I want to learn everything,” Marius said, though he averted his eyes as Combeferre escorted Grantaire away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow can u believe what it took to finish this chapter was to get wine-drunk by myself on my pandemic birthday? who knew. (i'm fine.)
> 
> anyway the countdown to spring is ON babies


	17. permets-tu?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no specific content warnings this time but a heads-up and a request. the heads-up is: this one is rough. the request is: please trust me. thanks.

It was stupid. No one was saying it wasn’t stupid, least of all him. But at the same time, how was he supposed to think about Enjolras giving a beautiful speech about hope and perseverance and _not_ drink himself to death? It, like, couldn’t be done, okay?

Except it had been done, apparently, because after he drank the isopropanol he’d gone to get help, like a fucking idiot who didn’t know what was good for him. Not that he’d had enough to be in danger anyway, just enough to get sick and… well, stupid.

So Grantaire didn’t die, and things got much worse after that.

Everyone knew about it, for one thing. If Grantaire had to guess-- which he did, because no one was super forthcoming about his embarrassing escapade-- Combeferre had given janitorial a stern talking-to about locking up their supplies and someone had put two and two together. He’d thought he had a hard time looking anyone in the eye before. Now? Forget it. Pity or contempt, he wasn’t sure which was worse.

He’d been released from the infirmary the next day, hungover as shit, to find that Éponine was no longer speaking to him, which made things in the pool house a little awkward. Much as that made him want to run, he’d learned from his years of fucking up that the only possible path to forgiveness was to push through it. 

Besides, he couldn’t do it to the kids. They deserved better than that. 

So here he was, the day of the spring equinox party, lying on the greenhouse floor while Jehan tied ribbons around the pots holding the decorative plants. His mouth was moving and his voice was coming out of it, but if he was honest he wasn’t entirely sure if he had a point.

“-- and it’s like, okay, summer is coming, but what does that really change, you know?”

Jehan hummed in that way that made Grantaire suspect he wasn’t actually paying attention. “Does this look straight to you?”

“How would I know if something is straight, dude? Doesn’t it take one to know one?” Grantaire supported himself on his elbows to look anyway. “Yeah, looks fine.”

“I’m not really aiming for _fine_ ,” Jehan grumbled.

“Art isn’t supposed to be perfect.”

Jehan fiddled with the bow. “Listen to you, all authoritative.”

Grantaire waggled his eyebrows. “Sexy, isn’t it?”

“Some people might think so,” Jehan said primly. “And I’m sure you’ll hear from them eventually.”

Grantaire snorted. “I think that’s a pretty hopeless situation.”

“You think every situation is hopeless.” Jehan took the next length of ribbon. “Will you put this in my hair?”

He stood up. He counted the steps until he was next to Jehan (nine) and took the ribbon in his shaking hands. He combed his fingers through Jehan’s hair and lifted it from his neck. “Wow, that’s quite a hickey.”

Jehan clapped his hand over it. “Shit, I forgot.”

“It’s fine, I’ll leave some of your hair down to cover. I’m just glad someone around here is getting some.” Grantaire smirked. “You know, only kings used to be allowed to wear this color.”

Jehan grinned. “Are you saying I’m a king?”

“We’re all citizens here, comrade,” Grantaire said. “In ancient times, they harvested the dye from sea snails.”

“Tyrian snails,” Jehan added. “You’ve said. Thousands of them died just to make enough color for this ribbon.”

“Not this ribbon specifically, which is probably synthetic, but yeah. Sorry. I didn’t realize I’d told you that one before.”

Jehan shrugged. “I don’t mind. I like hearing about what my friends know. It’s fun.”

“I’m sure that’s what Combeferre relies upon,” Grantaire said. 

“Don’t be cruel. Are you done?”

“Almost. Hold still.” Jehan’s hair was very fine, more satisfying to handle than his own, which he’d never had any interest in. He ended his fishtail braid about halfway down the length of Jehan’s hair, near the spot where his skull met his neck. The purple ribbon looked nice against the light brown when he tied it off. “That would be more secure if we had pins or an elastic or something, so be careful. If you want me to fix it later, bring me the stuff and I’ll do it.”

Jehan reached his hands to the back of his head and gingerly felt the contours of his hair. “Thank you. I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

“Get a look at it before you commit to that,” Grantaire grumbled.

“Art isn’t supposed to be perfect,” Jehan chirped. “Come on, help me carry.”

The first day of spring was turning out lovely. Even a dyed-in-the-wool pessimist like Grantaire could admit it. It wasn’t quite time to gather for the speech, but people had already started filtering out of the house to soak up the sunshine, adults with their hands wrapped around steaming mugs of some herbal tisane, children running after each other and shrieking with laughter.

Once Enjolras got here and started speaking, it was really going to be perfect.

Grantaire had no intention of sticking around for that. He dutifully set Jehan’s plants where he was told. Jehan did have an eye for this. Between the green of the plants and the pretty ribbons he’d added, they brought a celebratory air.

“Well, I’ll let you enjoy the party,” he said, brushing the dirt off his hands. 

Jehan seized his hand. “You’re not leaving?”

Grantaire frowned. “Nobody wants me here, J.”

“ _I_ want you here,” Jehan protested loyally.

“You have other concerns.” Grantaire nodded toward the mark on Jehan’s neck. 

“Well, I don’t want you to be by yourself.”

“I’m going to be fine. I don’t like crowds, you know that.”

“Oh, shut up and have some tea,” Musichetta’s voice came from behind him.

He turned to find her holding a mug out to him. 

“What, are you gonna fight with a pregnant lady?” she asked. “Take it. It’s calming, you’ll like it.”

Grantaire inhaled the steam. “Smells minty.”

Musichetta cradled her own mug in her hands. “There’s mint, and rosemary, and lavender, and honey from our bees. It’s an idea Jehan gave me, actually.”

Jehan reached up to pretend to tip a hat to her. “It was my pleasure. Oh, look, Enjolras is coming!”

So he was, on the steps from his office, looking gorgeous with the sun in his hair. There was a slight frown on his face, though, and he was cave-creature pale-- probably hadn’t been out of his room in days because there was a speech to edit. He had some kind of red cardigan on over his white shirt, and it suited him. Grantaire hadn’t seen it before. 

Grantaire forced himself to close his mouth. He shouldn’t have bothered. Everyone was too distracted by Enjolras to notice him, and if he hadn’t been so focused on himself he might’ve been able to stop Jehan from waving Enjolras over before it was too late.

To make matters worse, the first thing Enjolras said when he got there was “Grantaire, you came,” with the most glorious smile on his face. 

“I helped with the plants,” Grantaire muttered.

“Are you excited for the equinox, Enjolras?” Jehan asked.

The frown from before flashed across Enjolras’s face. “It’s our best day, and everyone deserves it for working so hard all winter.”

A classic non-answer. Enjolras hated this kind of thing. It surprised Grantaire how few of the others really saw that.

Jehan bounced on the balls of his feet. “Can we get a preview of the state of the union?” 

“Don’t call it that,” Enjolras said. “Honestly, I’ll be relieved when it’s over. I had some… difficulties, with this year’s speech.”

Grantaire snorted before he could help himself. “I’m sure it’s great. You’ve been working on it night and day, and I’ve never known you to give up before something was ready.”

Enjolras startled. “I-- you haven’t?”

“Don’t fish for compliments, it doesn’t become you. You know you’re great at this.”

“I didn’t know you thought that,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire waved a hand. “That’s less my opinion and more a fact of nature. Come on, everything you do is perfect. You even look perfect,” he told the ground under his feet.

“Um… thanks.” He felt more than saw Enjolras direct his laser-attention back to the group at large. “Well, I’m happy with how it came together, and I’m looking forward to sharing it with everyone.”

“Take this,” Grantaire said, thrusting the mug from his hands into Enjolras’s. “It’s supposed to be calming.”

Enjolras took a tentative sip. “It’s sweet.”

“Yes, not everyone views food as a punishment,” Grantaire said. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Good luck with the… thing.”

He was only half a step away when he was halted by the feeling of fingers on his wrist. Not a rough grip, but enough to stop him cold, because he knew who it belonged to.

“I wish you’d stay,” Enjolras said. “I think you’d like some of the things I’m going to say.”

Grantaire gently disentangled himself. “I thought you weren’t going to ask me for favors until I asked you first.” He held up a hand in a half-hearted wave and dashed off.

He didn’t make it far. He wasn’t strong enough. If Enjolras was going to stand in the sun and give a speech, Grantaire was going to watch. He just wasn’t going to do it from the crowd.

Instead, he retreated a few hundred meters west to the chicken run and resolved to watch from there, where at least no one would be able to witness his degradation.

That vantage point was probably why he saw it first.

Enjolras had just walked to the top of the small hill that provided the best space to talk to an assembly without getting on a roof, which he had been discouraged from doing. The population of La Republique was seated at the base of the hill below, to the south.

“Citizens and friends,” Enjolras said. “Winter has come and gone, and we have survived another year together. I remain proud of your hope and your commitment. Look at all we’ve accomplished. When we arrived two years ago, you were students and lawyers and store clerks. Now--”

That was when Grantaire spotted it. Coming up from the northwest, hidden from the crowd by the swell of the hill, where none of them would see it until too late.

Grantaire saw his first zombie two and a half years ago. He knew that was what he was looking at now.

It was headed straight for Enjolras, the loudest and brightest thing for miles.

He wished he could say he’d decided to do it. It would’ve been more heroic that way, but in all honesty it wasn’t a decision at all. It just happened, so fast: one adrenaline-fueled heartbeat from when he’d spotted the creature and mapped its trajectory, he was on his feet and running.

“Run,” he screamed, and then he leaped.

Dead flesh didn’t feel that different from living flesh. It wasn’t as warm as a person, but it was as solid as any other partner in a pas de deux as he tackled it to the ground. He should’ve anticipated that, but he’d never really thought about what it would be like to touch one.

That was what he was thinking as its hungry jaws closed on his shoulder.

It didn’t get to eat him; he was spared that much, at least, when Enjolras appeared behind the monster, looking like an avenging angel in a Baglione painting, and plunged his knife into its head.

The thing was pulled off him, and he lay on the cool earth, blinking up at Enjolras haloed against the blue sky, feeling his blood sink into the dirt beside him.

“Oh,” Enjolras said. “Oh, God. Oh, Grantaire.” He dropped the knife and knelt beside Grantaire. His hands came up near Grantaire’s face and his mangled shoulder, but stopped short of touching him.

Grantaire thought of all the touches he’d rejected. He was dimly aware of people screaming in the background, of Éponine shepherding her siblings away, of Jehan’s hair coming loose from its ribbon like he’d warned.

There were so many things he wouldn’t get another chance to fix.

“Don’t worry,” he panted. “I’m not going to beg for my life. I know a lost cause when I see one.”

Enjolras’s mouth was still in the shape of those _oh_ s he’d said.

“I do have a dying wish,” Grantaire continued. “If you’ll allow it.”

Enjolras nodded. “Of course. Anything you want.”

“Wait until I’m asleep,” he begged. His teeth started chattering. _Shock_ , supplied a voice in his head that sounded like Joly. “I don’t think I’ll take long to pass out. You don’t have to do it yourself. I know you think you do, but you don’t. I don’t care who pulls the trigger. I’ll be gone by then. I just want you to stay until I’m unconscious, and-- and hold my hand.”

Immediately, Enjolras grabbed the hand of his uninjured side, but he didn’t stop there. He lifted Grantaire’s whole body and eased him onto his own lap. “Is this okay?” 

A stuttering laugh forced its way past his lips. “I already told you. Everything you do is perfect.”

“Why did you do this?” Enjolras brushed Grantaire’s hair off his forehead.

Grantaire closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch Enjolras cry. “You know why.”

“I wish you hadn’t.”

“Tough,” Grantaire said. “I couldn’t let you die. I’m glad I didn’t. That’s the one thing I can be proud of.”

Enjolras made a small, choked sound.

Dying hurt a lot more than he’d thought it would. With every beat of his heart, the wound on his shoulder throbbed as more and more of his blood drained away. Onto Enjolras’s lap, now, instead of the ground.

“Your clothes are going to be ruined,” Grantaire sighed. “You looked so good in them.”

“I don’t care about clothes,” Enjolras spat.

“You never have.” Grantaire’s voice was fading even to his own ears. 

This was his last chance.

“Hey. I know I said all that stuff I said, but I didn’t really think--” He forced back a shiver.

Enjolras caressed the side of his face. “You don’t have to talk. Just be easy.”

“I’ve never made anything easy,” Grantaire gasped. “You know that.” He forced his eyes open, because this was important. “I didn’t think this was going to happen. I want-- want you to know-- I didn’t really think-- I-- I--”

“I know, I know,” Enjolras breathed. “It’s okay. You can rest.”

The feeling in the rest of his body was growing vague. Even the warmth of Enjolras’s embrace, a warmth he’d craved for years, was something he could barely feel anymore. If he still had legs, he didn’t know anything about them. All that remained was his shallow breathing, in and out, the agony of the wound on his shoulder, and Enjolras’s hand in his.

He was lucky to have Enjolras to look at in his final moments. Even blurry around the edges, there was nothing more beautiful or beloved to him, not in the entire known universe.

That was his last coherent thought, before everything grayed out.


	18. effroyable

_Please, please, please, let him be okay._

“Enjolras.”

_Please, no._

“Enjolras.”

_No. He has to be okay._

A hand touched his shoulder.

Enjolras realized he had been rocking back and forth, Grantaire clutched in his arms, for he didn’t know how long.

“I sent everyone back into the house,” Combeferre said. “Why don’t you let me take over?”

Enjolras shook his head. “He wanted me. He asked me to stay.”

Combeferre knelt down. “You stayed. He’s asleep now. You kept your promise. The rest of it, let me do. I can take care of him.”

If there was anyone he could trust with Grantaire, it was Combeferre. He nodded and allowed Combeferre to lift Grantaire from his arms.

He had other work to do. He stood up. “Who was on watch?”

Combeferre’s head jerked up. “I don’t think--”

“Who,” Enjolras repeated, “was on watch?”

“Montparnasse and Claquesous,” Combeferre said.

“Where are they?”

Combeferre bit his lip. “The garage. Courfeyrac is handling it.”

“No, he’s not,” Enjolras said, and took off.

When he threw the door to the garage open, everyone inside faced him with identical expressions: eyes round, mouths open.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac began in a low tone, but Enjolras cut him off with a swift arm motion.

“Not now. You two,” he said. “Do you have an explanation for where you were when an undead attacker breached our walls?”

“We… we…” Montparnasse stammered.

Claquesous said nothing.

Enjolras turned to Courfeyrac “Do you know where they were?”

Courfeyrac nodded. “The kitchen, taking extras.”

“So not only were you neglecting your duties, you were violating the meal agreement that keeps everyone fed. Someone died because of your actions. It’s only because of his swift action it wasn’t more.”

“Please, we didn’t mean any harm--” Claquesous pleaded.

“Regardless of what you did or did not mean, there was harm done. There is no going back from that now.” Enjolras fixed his eyes on Claquesous. “What is the rule, for when someone puts others in danger?”

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac murmured.

“What is the rule?” He asked again, in a harsher voice.

“Exile,” Claquesous whispered.

“You _can’t_.” Montparnasse’s was the first voice raised. “You miserable bastard, we’ll die out there.”

“You should have thought about that before you got someone killed in here,” Enjolras told him. He turned to Courfeyrac. “See that it is done. Keep them out of sight while their supply packs are readied. I expect them gone by nightfall.”

He turned his back and left the same way he’d come.

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac called after him.

He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “What?”

Courfeyrac hesitated. “You’re covered in blood.”

“It’s not mine.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” Enjolras twisted slightly to the left, just until he could see Courfeyrac out the corner of his eye. “You didn’t let the creature in.”

“It must have been awful for you,” Courfeyrac pressed. 

“I’m fine. Has the breach been addressed?” 

Courfeyrac nodded. “Bahorel and Feuilly went to do repairs. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Enjolras turned back away. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Enjolras--”

“I have to go.”

“Maybe you should--”

“I need to shower. I’m covered in blood.” He was. His khakis and cardigan were saturated, damp and emitting a sickening metallic smell. The white shirt under the cardigan couldn’t be much better. Everything he was wearing would be ruined. Grantaire was right. 

Grantaire…

“I have to go,” he repeated, and started walking. This time Courfeyrac let him. 

Enjolras climbed the stairs up to the above-garage apartment. He went straight into the bathroom and closed the door.

In the mirror, he could see it was worse than he’d realized. His hair was crusted with dried blood. There was a streak of it on his face. He looked like the dead himself, though whether attacker or attackee he couldn’t decide. 

He turned the water on in the shower and stepped in without bothering to undress. 

The water was cold. He was too numb to care. 

Once the water finally ran clear, he dropped his sopping clothes on the floor and stepped back out onto the tile. Had he broken the ten-minute rule? He had no idea. It couldn’t have been less, though, could it?

There was a knock on the bathroom door. 

“Occupied,” he called. 

The knock repeated, followed by Cosette’s voice. “Enjolras, I have fresh clothes for you.”

“Leave them.”

“Combeferre is asking for you.”

“Not now.”

“He needs to see you,” Cosette begged. 

“Is it about the exile?” Enjolras asked. 

“No,” she said. 

“Then it can wait until tomorrow.”

There was a thump on the other side of the door. “No, it can’t. Enjolras, please.”

He swung the door open, still naked and dripping. “There is nothing anyone can possibly want that can’t wait. Now go away and leave me alone.”

Cosette lifted her chin. “I’m not leaving until you come with me.”

“Then I hope you’re prepared to wait all night.”

“Grantaire’s alive.”

He took the clothes from her hands and pulled them on. He’d worn his blood-soaked shoes into the shower, so it was barefoot that he followed Cosette across the yard and into the house. 

Combeferre met him outside the infirmary door.

“Is it true?”

“Enjolras--”

He was so sick of people saying his name. “Is. It. True?”

“Yes.” Combeferre reached out and settled his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder. “Yes, he’s alive.”

“How?” he demanded. 

“I don’t know.” Combeferre said. “But I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about this. He’s alive and he’s going to stay that way.”

Enjolras exhaled hard. “Let me see him.”

Combeferre squeezed his shoulder before letting him go. “I don’t know how, but the wound started scabbing over. He’s hurt, and he’s a little out of it from the pain meds I gave him, but he’s fine. He’s going to be fine.”

He swung open the infirmary door. 

And there was Grantaire. Lying in a bed with an enormous bandage on his upper body, pale but alive. So, so alive. 

“Apollo!” Grantaire called, saluting with the glass in his hand. “Welcome to my kingdom.”

Enjolras frowned. “You let him mix whiskey with pills?”

Combeferre shrugged. “If you know a better way to stop him from trying to get out of bed, I’m all ears.”

“Is that safe?”

“It’s mostly water,” Combeferre whispered. “He can’t really taste the difference right now.”

Enjolras pressed his lips together.

Combeferre offered him a small smile. “I’ll be right outside. Yell if he needs anything. Or if you do.”

Enjolras nodded stiffly. 

Grantaire’s eyes sparkled as Enjolras settled in the chair next to the bed, but they didn’t focus with their usual sharpness. “Thank god he’s gone. You have to get me some real alcohol, Combeferre’s is weak as shit.”

“Take that up with him, then,” Enjolras said around the weight in his chest. “I’m not an enabler.”

“Gifts are customary,” Grantaire chided. “I almost died for you today.”

Enjolras swallowed. “Does it hurt?”

“Nah,” Grantaire said. “I’m tough. I can take it.”

He laughed wetly. “That you are.”

Grantaire stared at him. “You seem sad. Don’t be sad.”

“I’m not sad,” Enjolras said, as he started to cry. 

“Hey, hey,” Grantaire crooned. “It’s not that bad, really. Wanna see?”

Enjolras’s gaze snapped up. He sniffled. “Really?”

Grantaire lifted his good shoulder. “Sure.” He drained his glass and set it down before pushing himself off the pillows with a wince. His fingers fumbled with the edge of the gauze. 

This was probably a bad idea. He’d rip his stitches. Enjolras should stop him, he should call Combeferre--

“Got it,” Grantaire said, peeling back the bandage. “Ugly, right?”

It _was_ ugly, with jagged lines of black stitching surrounded by red swelling and darkening bruises. It just wasn’t as ugly as it should’ve been. A bite from the dead should be weeping blood and pus, pulling apart instead of sealing closed, looking like nothing that could be on a living body without consuming it. Grantaire’s wound was ugly, but it was healing. 

_He_ was healing.

Enjolras caught himself reaching toward the wound and curled his fingers into his hand instead.

“You’re looking at me like I’m a miracle,” Grantaire beamed. “What are looking at me like that for? Is it this?”

Enjolras caught Grantaire’s hand before he touched his own injury. “Better not. Let’s cover it up again.” He reached across with his right hand, so he didn’t have to let go of Grantaire’s hand in his left. He held his breath as he hovered, inches away from Grantaire’s face.

When he was done, he sat back down. He ran his thumb over Grantaire’s knuckles.

“I was really scared today,” he confessed.

“That’s weird. I don’t think I was.”

He sighed. “Don’t be glib, please.”

Grantaire smirked. “I’m not.” He nestled back down into the sheets of his infirmary bed. “You really take life too seriously sometimes. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“It might’ve come up,” Enjolras said.

“Once or twice,” Grantaire added.

“Once or twice,” Enjolras echoed.

Grantaire’s hand in his was soft and warm.

“I have an idea,” Grantaire said. “Oh, come on, you don’t have to look like that. You don’t even know it’s a bad idea yet.”

“Your last idea almost killed us both,” Enjolras reminded him.

“This isn’t like that.” Grantaire looked down at his lap and smoothed the sheets with his free hand. “Would you like to get in?”

Enjolras blinked. “I-- not if-- would you? Like that?”

Grantaire scooted over on the mattress, then looked back up into Enjolras’s eyes. “I’m very tired, and you’re very tired, and we’ve had an incredibly long day, and I would like it very much if you would get in bed with me.”

Enjolras felt pulled toward Grantaire as it by a gravitational force. “I won’t hurt you?”

“You couldn’t hurt a newborn kitten,” Grantaire scoffed. “Come on.”

Enjolras eased himself onto the mattress, but Grantaire must have been lying about how much it hurt, because he hissed in a breath that could only mean pain. Enjolras tried to stop, but Grantaire used his good arm to pull Enjolras down beside him, until they were lying pressed together.

“There, that’s better,” Grantaire murmured. “Now I can’t see your worried face.” He laid his head on Enjolras’s shoulder.

He listened to Grantaire’s breath as it slowed and evened out. Once he was sure Grantaire was asleep, Enjolras dropped a soft kiss to the top of his head. “I love you,” he whispered.

For once, Grantaire didn’t fight him on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you still mad? please don't be mad. I had to do it. I couldn't bear to hurt you without solving it at once so you get two in a day.
> 
> some answers in the next chapter, because Combeferre will not rest until he gets answers.


	19. antécédents médicaux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was bitten by a zombie yesterday, Combeferre,” Grantaire said. “I am very much not okay.”

A soft sound drew Combeferre’s attention. He looked up from his notes. “Grantaire? Are you awake?”

Grantaire clutched the pillow closer to his face. “No,” he groaned.

“How are you feeling?”

“Terrible, actually.” Grantaire released the pillow and squinted up at him. “Is that normal?”

Combeferre considered his answer. “I’m not sure I’m equipped to say what _is_ normal, at this point. Can you elaborate?”

“My head hurts. I’m sore everywhere. I’m sick to my stomach. I can barely keep my eyes open. I know it’s not a hangover, because the stuff you gave me last night was mostly water.”

Combeferre nodded. “Well, your body’s gone through a trauma. You lost a lot of blood. What you’re feeling could be in the normal range for that. But I’d like to do an exam, if that’s alright with you.”

Grantaire shifted uncomfortably. “It would be counterintuitive to say no to the guy who’s saving my life.”

“Can you sit up?”

Rather than answer with words, Grantaire struggled to push himself up. It looked painful, but he was capable of it.

“I want to take your temperature, make sure there’s no infection starting.” Combeferre took a thermometer out of the supply cabinet. “We have the old-fashioned kind without batteries, so this’ll take a minute.”

“This can go in my mouth, right?” Grantaire asked. “Just asking, because--”

“Yes, but only if you can stop talking and let it work.” While it did, he started untaping the gauze on Grantaire’s shoulder. “The wound looks good,” he pronounced.

Grantaire gave a thumbs up. 

Combeferre took the thermometer from his mouth. “Not bad. Thirty-six degrees.”

“A little low, isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. It fluctuates, and it’s different for everybody. And like I said, you lost some blood. It wouldn’t be unusual for your temperature to come up a little as your body repairs, but we don’t want to see any major changes in either direction. Are you feeling cold?”

Grantaire toyed with the sheets. “A little.”

“I’ll make sure we get some warm fluids for you to drink. For now, you’ll have to make do with this.” He set a bottle of homemade oral rehydration solution next to the bed. “It’s important you stay hydrated, so you should try to get that down in the next hour or so.”

Grantaire picked it up and took a cautious sip. He grimaced.

Combeferre smiled sympathetically. “It’s not exactly a sports drink, I’m sorry. You might start feeling better after you’ve had one or two, and then we should be able to switch you to plain water.”

“Well, I’ve definitely had worse,” Grantaire sighed.

“Can you make a fist with your left hand?” Combeferre asked. 

Grantaire passed all the motor tests. He had some weakness, which was probably due to the blood loss, but Combeferre promised to keep an eye on it. “How’s the pain?”

“It hurts,” Grantaire hedged.

“I’ll get you something for that, if you want. Can I listen to your breathing?”

Grantaire frowned. “Will that tell you anything?”

“It might,” Combeferre said. 

Grantaire leaned forward to allow Combeferre to lay the stethoscope on the bare skin of his back.

“Nice tattoo,” Combeferre commented. 

“Thanks. It’s Greek script for--”

“Agape,” Combeferre supplied. “Breathe in deep.”

Breath sounds normal, heart and respiration rates slightly elevated. Combeferre wrote it down. “Can I take a look in your mouth?”

Grantaire recoiled. “Why?”

“All data is good data,” Combeferre said. “It’s a normal part of the exam.”

“Okay.” Grantaire opened his mouth.

“A little wider, please.” Combeferre repurposed the thermometer as a tongue depressor to get a better look. No inflammation. “Were you already missing a molar?”

Grantaire said something, but with the thermometer on his tongue it came out garbled.

“Oops, sorry.” Combeferre pulled back. “What was that?” He walked toward the sink to deposit the thermometer for washing.

“Yeah, I sold it.”

Combeferre paused, still holding the thermometer. “You… sold your tooth?”

“Technically I sold the filling. They use real gold in those, did you know? The tooth was just collateral damage.” Grantaire licked his lips, which looked dry, then took another sip of the rehydration solution. “I needed the money. I had some expensive habits back then.”

“Very entrepreneurial of you.”

Grantaire laughed. “That’s almost exactly what Enjolras said when I told him that story. Anyway, it paid for a liter of the cheapest liquor money could buy, so I guess it was a success. I don’t even miss the tooth. If there had been any fillings in the rest of them, I probably would’ve sold those too. Maybe I wasn’t lying in all those job interviews when I said I was ‘goal-oriented.’”

Combeferre assumed a solemn face and perched on the edge of the seat beside Grantaire’s bed. “Grantaire.”

The jocular expression faded instantly, like the illusion it was. “Yeah?”

“Can you tell me what happened yesterday?”

“No.” Grantaire turned his face away. “I wish I could, but I don’t really remember. Trauma can do that, right?”

“It can,” Combeferre said. “But it didn’t, did it? You’re an awful liar.”

“It did,” Grantaire insisted. “It has to have. Because what I remember doesn’t make any goddamn sense.”

Combeferre leaned forward. “Why don’t you tell me what you remember, and we’ll see if we can make it make sense.”

Grantaire shook his head. “I’m telling you, we won’t. It’s not possible. I had some crazy dream while I was unconscious. Everyone has crazy dreams all the time now.” He gestured to his injured shoulder. “It would’ve killed me. You would’ve killed me yourself. So that’s not… that must not be what happened.” He swallowed visibly. “Right?”

“I think you remember it pretty accurately,” Combeferre said gently.

The color left Grantaire’s face. “Oh,” he gasped, eyes closing.

“Grantaire?”

“I hoped it was a dream,” Grantaire croaked.

Combeferre picked up the rehydration solution. “Here, take another sip.” He watched while Grantaire did so, then took the bottle back. “Are you okay?”

“I was bitten by a zombie yesterday, Combeferre,” Grantaire said. “I am very much not okay.” He exhaled slowly. “Why did you let me live?”

“You’ve seen the wound, Grantaire. It’s healing. You’re not infected.”

“How?”

“There are a number of possible explanations,” Combeferre said carefully. “I’m trying to gather as much information as I can before committing to one hypothesis.”

Grantaire nodded. “So you have no fucking clue.”

“Crude though it is, that would be accurate, yes.” Combeferre seized Grantaire’s hand. “But I’m going to find out. I promise you that.”

“I’m feeling… not very good,” Grantaire said.

Combeferre released his hand. “Try to get some more rest. Drink your fluids. I’ll leave you alone for a little while.”

Grantaire curled around a pillow and pressed his face into it. “This pillow…”

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“No, it smells like…” Grantaire shifted. “Never mind.”

Combeferre’s lips twitched. “Let me know if you need anything. Don’t try to get up without help, I doubt you’re very steady on your feet.”

Combeferre retreated to the far corner and sat down to make notes. He’d always organized his thoughts best in writing.

About an hour later, he set his pen down and closed his notebook. Grantaire should probably eat something. Maybe he’d go to the kitchen and get something. He could use the walk. A little movement had been known to help him get unstuck.

He locked the infirmary door behind him.

The rhythm of the house was off. People should have been at their work shifts by now, but as Combeferre walked the halls he didn’t see much of anyone working. Those he did see were mostly huddled in small groups or watching at a window. After the upsetting events of yesterday, he supposed it wasn’t a surprise.

Musichetta was in the kitchen, though, directing her staff in the production of lunch. In her second trimester, she’d been reporting fewer symptoms than in her first, and he was relieved that the pregnancy seemed to be progressing without complication so far. That much, at least, was going smoothly.

“Hey,” he said. “Can I ask for a favor?”

Musichetta glanced at him and her face changed. “Let me guess: you need food?”

“Not for me,” Combeferre replied. “For my patient. Something easy?”

“I have just the thing,” she said. “We had porridge with sultanas this morning. But take something for you, too. You can’t run on nothing.”

He smiled at her, but he knew he looked tired. “Thanks. I’d take some of that tea from yesterday, too, if you’ve got it.”

“Let me heat up some water for that and we’ll make you a tray.” Musichetta returned his smile with sympathy.

One or two of the staff stood staring at him, but when Musichetta turned to find them like that she glared them back to work.

In ten minutes he had his tray-- not only the porridge and tea he’d asked for but a few slices of toast and a cup of broth in case it was difficult to tempt a reluctant appetite. Hopefully something would do. 

He ascended the stairs carefully, not wanting to spill anything. His eyes were downcast, monitoring the tray for any unsanctioned movement, when he heard footsteps rushing down toward him. 

“Combeferre!” Courfeyrac called. “I’ve been to the infirmary but the door was locked. Is he--?”

Combeferre looked up. “I can’t violate patient confidentiality.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “I was there. I saw it happen. Then there’s this wild rumor that actually Grantaire is immune to zombie bites and you don’t come out of the office, and it starts to seem true. Is it?”

He bit his lip. “The evidence on immunity is unclear. But he is alive, yes. And clear of infection.”

“How is that _possible?”_

“I wish I knew.” He would have rubbed his eyes had his hands not been occupied. 

“Let me take that.” Sometimes it felt like Courfeyrac could read his mind. 

Combeferre handed the tray over. “Thanks.”

Courfeyrac reversed course and accompanied him to the infirmary. “I’m guessing I’m not coming in.”

“I don’t think we’re ready for visitors yet, sorry.” Combeferre unlocked the door and then took the tray back. “Thank you again for the help.”

Courfeyrac shrugged and smiled. “Course.”

Inside, Grantaire was showing signs of life. The rehydration bottle from before was empty and the sheets were rumpled like he’d moved around in the bed.

Taking a gamble that he was awake, Combeferre approached with the tray. “Think you can eat something? I have options.”

Grantaire blinked his eyes open. “Do I have to?”

“It’s a good idea, so I can give you a painkiller and some antibiotics. I’d like to get those started sometime today.” Combeferre set the tray down beside the bed. “Pick your poison. It’s all warm.”

“Is that bread? I’ll take that. And the… soup?”

Combeferre passed him the cup of broth and one of the triangles of toast. “Take your time, and stop when you need to. It’s just going to be better if there’s something in your stomach. These pills can be hard on your system.”

He managed the broth and most of a slice of toast. Combeferre took the porridge himself, since otherwise it would go cold. He hadn’t realized he was so hungry. It had been a long work shift. 

The teacups were still warm to the touch, so he pushed one on Grantaire and lifted the other. “Keep drinking. This is your break from rehydration solution.” He took his own tea to the pharmacy closet and picked out a broad-spectrum antibiotic and a low-dose pain pill. “Let me know if you feel any worse after taking these. You don’t have any medication allergies, so you?”

Grantaire shook his head.

As Combeferre handed him the pills to take, someone pounded on the door. 

Combeferre looked over his shoulder. The knocking came again. 

He straightened up. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Éponine all but fell into the room when he opened the door. 

“Can I help you?”

“I need to see him,” she said. “Please, let me see him.”

He tried to maneuver her back into the hallway. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you think.” There wasn’t anger in Éponine’s voice, only desperation. “You have to let me in or I’ll--”

“Let her in,” Grantaire said.

Combeferre turned to face him. “Are you sure?”

Grantaire tilted his head like he’d started to shrug but thought the better of it. “She won’t give up if you don’t.”

“When you put it like that,” Combeferre muttered, and took a step back. 

Éponine rushed past him. “You asshole.”

“Oh, are you talking to me now?” Grantaire asked.

“Shut up,” Éponine said, and started sobbing.

Combeferre inched toward the door. “I’ll give you two a minute. I’ll be in the hall if you need anything.”

He pulled the infirmary door shut behind him and slid down to sit against it. His elbows rested on his knees. He exhaled slowly.

If the last twenty-four hours hadn’t taken five years off his life, he must be invincible.

“Combeferre?”

His head snapped up, but when he saw it was Enjolras he relaxed again. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Enjolras’s hands were shoved into his pockets. He looked like he hadn’t gotten any more sleep after he’d slid out from under Grantaire at two this morning and crept back out to his own room. “Is he awake?”

“Yeah, but Éponine’s in there.” Combeferre leaned his head against the door. “I think things are getting kind of emotional.”

Enjolras’s expression shifted slightly. “Oh.”

“I’m glad you’re here, though,” Combeferre told him. “We need to talk about happened yesterday.”

Enjolras sat against the wall opposite Combeferre, their feet almost meeting in the middle of the hallway. “Okay.”

“If there’s anything you know or-- if there was anything different about the creature that you saw, or felt, or _smelled_ \-- I’m looking for answers and no one got closer to it than you except…” Combeferre shook his head. “He doesn’t remember anything.”

“He doesn’t remember anything?” Enjolras repeated.

“He has the broad strokes, I think. I didn’t ask a lot of follow-up questions so I’m not really sure.”

Enjolras frowned. “Not like you to skip questions.”

“He started to get upset. It was more important to keep him calm.” Combeferre stood up. “I don’t think he knows anything anyway.” He started to pace the length of the hall.

“What are you thinking?”

“Explanation-wise?” Combeferre asked. “I have several hypotheses. It could be something about Grantaire, some antibody or a mutation that renders him immune. Or it could have been the zombie itself,” he added. “Maybe it was weaker, less infectious than the others. Or perhaps the pathogen has degraded over time and it can’t infect humans anymore. Or some environmental factor-- something physical or chemical-- that inhibited transmission.”

Enjolras drew his knees up to his chest and said nothing.

“Science didn’t get a lot of time with this disease before all the labs shut down,” Combeferre lamented. He was pacing faster now. “There’s not a lot we know. It spreads from bites. The wounds don’t close up. Over days or weeks the infected person’s body shuts down, but instead of regular death they start trying to attack the living and they become able to transmit it themselves. It can’t be prevented and they can’t be revived. One hundred percent of observed cases happen that way. So what makes Grantaire’s different?”

He rakd his fingers through his hair, pulling it off his face. “If I had a lab, that would be something. I could do blood tests, _something_. But I don’t even have a microscope. I don’t see how we can ever narrow down--”

“It was me.”

Combeferre stopped in his tracks. “What?”

Enjolras swallowed visibly. “You said it could be something in the environment, right? I was in the environment. I’m what was different. It was me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand either.” Enjolras stared up at him, the intense blue of his eyes like fire against the paper-paleness of his skin. “But it’s true. I did it. It was me.”

Combeferre sighed. “Enjolras, I know this has been hard for you--”

“I’ve done it before.”

Combeferre sat back down. “I think you’d better tell it to me from the beginning.”

Enjolras nodded. “It was a Thursday. We always had lunch together on Thursdays, remember? I’d come to the hospital to meet you. Late February or early March, it must have been. Two years ago.” He looked down and continued speaking to his lap. “There were reports but everyone kind of thought they were rumors. No one thought there was really a zombie virus. But the hospital was slammed with early cases, and you couldn’t get away. I waited forty minutes.”

He looked back up. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I heard the nurses talking. There was a man, and he was dying. I just… I didn’t want him to be alone.” He licked his lips. “So I went into his room. No one even asked if I was family. It was… horrible. The man was alive, but he didn’t have long. He looked kind of gray, and his breathing was funny.” Enjolras gestured with one of his hands. “He had this gash on his arm. It was covered with fresh gauze when I came in but the wound was leaking, and there was this smell…”

Enjolras shook his head slightly. “I sat with him. I held his hand. I’m not sure for how long. But I felt… I don’t know what I felt. I can’t explain it. Like an electric current connecting me to him. Combeferre, he got better. A nurse came in to check on him, and she said his vital signs were stronger. And when she changed the bandage, the wound had closed up. He’d been in the hospital a week, she said, and it hadn’t closed the whole time.”

“What happened to him?” Combeferre asked.

“I don’t know,” Enjolras admitted. “They said it looked like he’d wake up soon, and I left. I didn’t want him to wake up and be a stranger after that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know,” Enjolras said. “Only much later did I think-- and never seriously until now--” He seemed to catch his voice rising and lowered it. “I was going to. But that was the day you called home and your moms didn’t answer, and from then we had bigger problems.”

That had been the demarcation between normal and apocalypse: Combeferre got up one morning a doctor with his own apartment and two mothers in Provence, and by that evening he’d been an orphan staying on Enjolras’s couch.

“It’s… an interesting theory,” Combeferre hedged. “There’s some precedent for biochemical messaging through the skin, although nothing so dramatic as what you’ve described. I’m afraid we still can’t prove anything.”

“We can test it,” Enjolras said. “If I can get close enough to touch, we can find out if that reverses the condition.”

“Close enough to touch is close enough to bite,” Combeferre countered.

“We can have someone stand guard.”

“I don’t know, Enjolras. It’s risky.” Combeferre adjusted his glasses.

Enjolras tilted his chin up. “Everything worth doing is risky.”

“Yes, but the converse is not necessarily true,” Combeferre said. “We can talk about this later. You’ve given me a lot to think about.” Such as: if what Enjolras was saying was true… not that he was sure it was… how many undead had they killed unnecessarily? How many could they have saved?

Enjolras pushed a piece of his hair back. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Combeferre scooted closer to him and offered his hand. 

Enjolras took it. “You believe me. Don’t you?”

“I don’t _not_ believe you,” he answered. “It’s a big thing to believe. I’ve never known you to be self-deluded about your abilities, but I’m not thrilled about the thought of throwing you in a pit with a zombie and seeing how it shakes out either.”

Enjolras nodded. “I can understand that.”

Combeferre squeezed his hand.

He felt Enjolras squeeze back.

After a few minutes, Enjolras pulled away. “I should go. He’ll be tired when Èponine leaves.”

“I’m sure he’d like to see you.”

“Another time.” Enjolras stood. “About what I told you…”

“In confidence, of course.” Combeferre said. “I’m glad you told me. We’ll figure it out.”

Enjolras nodded sharply.

The infirmary door swung open and Èponine exited, her eyes rimmed in red but no longer weeping. She sniffled. “There’s a weird vibe out here.”

“I was just going.” Enjolras took one step further down the hall.

“Good. You look almost as bad as he does,” she said. “But I guess that’s better than dead, huh?” She tucked her hands into her jacket pockets and walked toward him. “I’m going, too. He wouldn’t say, but I think he’s feeling pretty bad.”

Enjolras’s eyelid twitched.

“I’ll go in and check on him,” Combeferre promised. 

Èponine gave him a nod. 

Back to work it was.


End file.
